


Un Cadeau du Roi

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Mystery, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-30
Updated: 2006-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So here it is.  A little earlier than I expected, but all parts are finished so why not start posting?  This is my first historical mystery AU, featuring a cast of numerous LOTR characters, a photojournalist with a tragic past, and a 400 year old secret.  Historical mystery is my favourite fictional genre, so I am thrilled to present my first crack at it.  Please, with a cherry on top, let me know what you think!  Also, a note on banners: There will be one per part, and many of the photos are my own.  Though occasional details might be fudged in a particular section, most of the places in the story are places I've lived.  If you're curious about details in a particular section, feel free to ask!</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. A little earlier than I expected, but all parts are finished so why not start posting? This is my first historical mystery AU, featuring a cast of numerous LOTR characters, a photojournalist with a tragic past, and a 400 year old secret. Historical mystery is my favourite fictional genre, so I am thrilled to present my first crack at it. Please, with a cherry on top, let me know what you think! Also, a note on banners: There will be one per part, and many of the photos are my own. Though occasional details might be fudged in a particular section, most of the places in the story are places I've lived. If you're curious about details in a particular section, feel free to ask!

      When Viggo Mortensen was forty-six years old, he went on a mission.

      Viggo had been a well-respected journalist for years, decades even—two of them, since the tender age of twenty-five when he had managed an interview with a death row inmate. It was technically unsanctioned by the newspaper, but God what a story he came up with, so full of compassion and brash spirit that he was promoted to senior staff within the year.

      It had been years, however, since that same brash spirit had seen the light. If you asked Sean, Viggo's long-time editor, he would say that the flame had already started to gutter ten years before, when Sean first became editor-in-chief. The nineties were an exciting time, and anyone could see that, but Viggo's standard human-interest stories were beginning to take a toll on his soul. Paid by the story, he wrote features on the side for TIME and National Geographic, travelling the world and collecting stories. He told the tale of a twenty year old AIDS victim, an American boy who had seen his lover beaten to death just a year before Matthew Shepard's name was first heard on CNN. He took photos of women in Nicaragua, telling their stories for the first time as refugees from more hostile nations where husbands were beaten and killed. His most famous photo was of a child, two years old, his huge brown eyes reflecting fear and hopelessness, the child of a rape by rebel forces, the mother only sixteen. By the time things were really becoming interesting for American photojournalists, Viggo had seen enough.

      It was sympathy that kept Viggo well paid and comfortable, rarely leaving New York these days, depending on Sean's goodwill and an abundance of stock assignments. He covered the progress of aid organizations he had once tracked all over Asia, Africa, and South America from the comfort of their New York offices, did the UN for a while. His language skills got him places, and he was valuable, but Sean knew that in reality the paper was wasting its time. When Viggo wrote with his heart, he was fucking brilliant, but that heart hadn't been seen unveiled in a very long time.

      "Mortensen." The British voice was gruff, but with an undertone of understanding that Viggo suspected most on the payroll did not hear. Or maybe they just didn't bother to listen. He looked up from the cardboard box and smiled, extended a hand.

      "Sean." The two men pulled each other into a friendly embrace, and when Sean pulled back he got a good look at his friend. Viggo was skinny, and a couple of days' stubble graced his chin. His eyes were gaunt, sunken-looking, and Sean cursed inwardly. The things he saw, back in the day… but this wasn't what Viggo was looking for, now. Europe was safe. People weren't dying of hate crimes and disease in Europe, or at least that's what Viggo could kid himself with. Sean knew that it begged to be pointed out—people are dying in America, Mortensen, and you fucking know it—but he was here as a friend, not as an editor. He was here to say goodbye.

      "I'll miss you, you fucker. You call, you know? If you need anything."

      Viggo nodded, but didn't respond directly. "I'll be seeing you, Sean. I'll be back." He lifted the box, shifted it to his hip. When he turned in the doorway Sean was standing in silhouette, backed by the bright sunlight in the window, the centre of attention in an office that hadn't been empty in fifteen years.

      "What's this book about, anyway?" Sean asked, realizing for the first time, watching his friend in the doorway, that Viggo had never told him.

      A laugh, hollow but still there. A juggling of the box on his hip. "It's about what I find, Sean."

      And with a slight incline of the head, Viggo Mortensen was gone. In this life at least, it was the last time the two men would ever cross paths.

     

      The flight was less than seven hours. JFK to Dublin, and then on to Shannon, but Viggo got off before that. His destination had been chosen, literally, by throwing a tack at a wall-mounted map of Western Europe, and he had to laugh at his unorthodox methods, the kind of a laugh that he felt like he hadn't uttered in years. And it was laughable, he admitted, this war-torn heroic journalist now traipsing around Europe in search of a slice of human interest that might warrant a coffee table book. It was rather sad, in fact. Viggo didn't care about truth and beauty anymore. Viggo was out to find happy people, interesting but happy. He wouldn't watch another admirable human being's life expire in front of his very eyes. He couldn't afford, once again, to wish roles were reversed.

      "Ticket, please?" Viggo looked up into the eyes of a rather ticked-off looking ticket agent, blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight she probably suffered from chronic migraines. Viggo smiled, but his heart wasn't in it, and so instead he ruffled around his bag and produced the e-ticket and his passport. "Gate fourteen," the woman volunteered, and then his duffle was swung onto a conveyer and he was heading back through security, back onto another flight, this time only an hour. He rolled his eyes at the Ryan Air snack menu, three euro for a semi-decent cup of coffee, and settled for the bottle of mineral water in his backpack instead. Fifty-two minutes later, he was landing in Cork, and his adventure had begun.

      "Spare change, sir?" Viggo shook his head at the man, the first voice directed at him since he had gotten out of the cab, and then, feeling pity, turned on his heel and dropped a fifty-cent piece into the paper cup, continuing across the bridge with some satisfaction. A map from the airport had helped orient him, and with his things safely stowed at the hotel, he set out to find what he was looking for—whatever that was.

      The Grand Parade was busy in early afternoon, for it was Friday, and school had just let out for the week. Pre-pubescent girls in green jumpers and stockings gave him suspicious looks as he passed, and yeah, maybe it wouldn't kill him to have a shower and a shave, but what of it? He ran his fingers over the inscriptions on the Nationalist Monument, tipping an imaginary hat at the names, and continued on down the thoroughfare, past the English market and towards the centre. At the corner he screwed up his nose at the McDonalds, but at second glance decided that, as this one served cappuccino, it couldn't really hurt to indulge. Coffee in hand, he continued on down Patrick Street and was confronted with his first victim.

      "Come out ye black and tans, come out and fight me like a man! Show your wives how you won medals down in Flanders. Tell them how the IRA made you run like hell today from the green and lovely lanes in Killeshandra…"

      Viggo smiled as he watched the pair, coins piling up in the open violin case in salute to the patriotic tune. He settled on a bench just opposite, not close enough to be presumptuous but still within earshot of the slight singer's voice, when he finished his tune, setting down his bódhran as he addressed the fiddler standing next to him.

      "Not bad, eh Dommeh? Quite a lot of pence in there, innit?" he remarked with a sparkle in disarming green eyes.

      "Shuddup, Bills!" the other man answered affectionately, rosining his bow with a cool effectiveness. "They're 'cents,' remember? Y'aren't gonna look bloody Irish for long, not like that… chance is the Garda will haul you off the minute you're discovered," he mumbled, but a teasing smile told Viggo that he was only kidding, and the Scot didn't look too concerned as they launched into a set of reels.

      After an hour, Viggo was convinced that he was either invisible, or being purposefully ignored. He had taken a few shots from the bench, afraid to get closer for sake of professional respect. Maybe later he would ask, when they had finished busking, but his idea was pre-empted when the fiddler finished packing up and strode purposefully over to the bench with a grin on his face.

      "Name's Dominic, mate. Fancy a cuppa? You pay, I won't sue," he offered amiably, nodding at the camera bag as he extended his hand. Viggo laughed in turn, knowing that actually, there was nothing near grounds for a lawsuit in the situation, not to mention the fact that the men probably didn't have a busking licence, but he wasn't one to argue details.

      "It's Viggo. And sure thing… I hope you don't mind, my photographing. It's for a book…"

      "Nah, mate. I'm just playing with you," Dominic assured, nodding at the man who was counting money in place before shoving the bódhran into a round black bag and getting to his feet. "That's Billy, there. He fancies a nice cup of tea himself, after an honest day's work," Dominic explained with an ironic wink, and Viggo just nodded. Billy, unlike Dominic, seemed quite reserved, almost suspicious, but was coaxed into stepping over, shaking Viggo's hand, and following the other two to a café in an alley near St. Peter and Paul's.

      "You know, I'll never understand why they couldn't pick just one saint for their arsing church," Dominic commented with a grin as they ducked inside and ordered three cups of tea. "Might as well have gone with the whole deck, all twelve of 'em, if they couldn't choose just one apostle."

      Viggo laughed, but Billy just shook his head and crossed himself, probably not seriously, but Viggo couldn't be sure. When they sat on leather loveseats, either side of a low glass table, Viggo couldn't help put notice the pressure between the two men's thighs and the aura of protection Dominic seemed to lend to his partner. Viggo wondered if he could capture such a thing on film, anymore, or if his capacity to document human affection had been destroyed along with his capacity to experience it. Something to discuss with his shrink, he supposed.

      "So, Viggo. What kind of book are you writing, then? Are we going to be famous?" Dominic grinned and raised his cup to Viggo before taking a sip. Billy just stared at his own knees.

      "It's a… well honestly, I don't know yet. I want to take pictures of people, interesting people. Maybe get their stories, write them down…"

      Dominic inclined an eyebrow. "You don't know what the hell you're doing, do you mate?"

      Viggo laughed and shook his head, sipping his own tea and cursing as it burned his lip. "No I… well I suppose I don't. But I'm not completely off my rocker, I mean, I am…was… a journalist."

      "Was?" Dominic asked. "What the fuck did you do then?"

      "I didn't do anything, I mean I wasn't fired. I left. Wanted something more… I don't know." Viggo shrugged.

      "Real?" Billy suggested, and Viggo realized it was the first time Billy had spoken to him. His eyes were a glassy green, almost clear, and alarmingly piercing. Viggo's own gaze dropped, surreptitiously.

      "I… I already did real. Years ago, I was real. It's…"

      "Didn't work for you?" Dominic supplied with a sympathetic smile.

      "Too painful."

      "Ah, but the world's painful, mate," Dominic pointed out. "Mind, our stories aren't that bad, but if you just look around, pain will find you. Always does." Viggo nodded, wishing that the young man were wrong.

      "Well, I won't go looking for it, anyway. But what about the two of you? Would you consent to being interviewed, perhaps? Doesn't have to be formal or anything, just a mini-recorder and some simple questions…"

      "You want our life stories?" Billy asked. Second time.

      "Yeah, well, I mean…"

      "It won't be quick. It won't be simple. Are you still in?" Billy was staring, but Viggo couldn't turn away this time. He drew in a deep breath, nodded slowly.

      "Let's do it."

     

      "I was born in Glasgow," Billy began, feet in Dominic's lap on a well-worn sofa, his eyes closed, but still managing to appear guarded as Dominic rubbed slow circles int his ankles. "1968. I have a sister, Margaret. No brothers. I came to Ireland in 1990." He paused, looked up, focused on Viggo. "You want anything before that, you're not going to get it," he warned, and Viggo just nodded. No sense pressing this early on, not with someone so cautious. Billy nodded back, satisfied, and closed his eyes again, settling back again the armrest and stretching his legs further into Dominic's hands. "Right then. 1990, I arrived in Donegal. My parents were dead, sister married, and I had little reason to stay in Scotland. I wasn't exactly poor, but I didn't have a lot. I worked at a pub for a while, and a man I worked with taught me to drum in my spare time. I was shite for it at first, but I learn quickly. Me mum taught me to sing when I was just a wee 'un, and it didn't take long for me to pick up some of the songs the blokes would sing after getting a bit pissed… I knew some tunes in Scots Gaelic, and Irish isn't so different, so… Well anyway, I met Dominic in '99. I was down in Galway by then, after a brief stint in Connemara with…. well, it didn't work out. Anyhow, in Galway, I met Dom. He was a bit crazy, I could see that even then, but when he got to playing that thing…" Billy paused again, but this time when his eyes opened he didn't even see Viggo, and the two men shared a secret smile. "…it was fantastic. Everyone loved him around town, you know, and he wasn't even a Paddy."

      "Clearly," Dom interrupted, but Billy just snorted and returned to his story.

      "We shared a cheese and onion pasty one night after closing at the pub I was working at the time, and…"

      "One thing led to another, you might say," Dom finished with a wink. Billy grunted, but didn't deny it.

      "Right, well. We shared a room over the pub for two months, maybe, but we were… well let's just say some blokes in town weren't too keen on having a Scot working their favourite spot, and once they had another reason on their hands…" Viggo noticed that Dominic, too, closed his eyes at this point in the story, and his fingers seemed to tighten almost imperceptibly on Billy's foot. "He was in a bad way, Dommeh was. I guess he looked like the weaker one, and well, I wouldn't deny it…" Dominic rolled his eyes but didn't contradict, and Viggo smiled. "Point is, they went after him, cornered him alone, and he was in a mighty bad way. And then, of course, they had me to reckon with." Billy's eyes were open again, and Viggo himself was almost frightened by the protective gleam, not lessened by time or memory. "The owner of the pub liked me, but after what I did to those boys, he couldn't keep me. There would be talk, and if I wanted to keep my working papers, I had to get the hell out of there. So Dominic and I headed south, and after a little time in Killarney we ended up here." Billy shrugged, as if to conclude the story.

      "So what about jobs? Do you just busk, or do you do other things?" Viggo asked.

      "Oh, we work," Dom clarified. "Billy works at An Brog now, down on Oliver Plunkett street, and I mix cocktails at the Long Island. Plenty of love for the fairy boys down at that place, at least from the women," he clarified with a slight smirk. "Anyway, we just started doing this for fun, and it's a bit of money. Not the interesting sob story you were hoping for mate, I'm afraid."

      "No… no it's fine, I… what about you, Dominic? I mean, how did you get here?" Viggo asked, angling the mic slightly to pick up Dominic's voice.

      "Oh well… my story's not so interesting, I mean… I grew up in Germany, all over the fucking place, and when I was a teenager my parents moved us back. No siblings, just me, and when I got done with my schooling in Manchester I was too stoned to do uni, really. Too stoned to do much of anything, and they were sick of me. So I came to Ireland, you know, got some brains. Worked in Dublin for a long time, learned how to make fancy drinks and make people happy. Would've stayed, but I went to Galway with some mates for a change of scenery one summer and that's where I found this one." Billy smiled a rare genuine smile as Dominic squeezed his knee.

      "And what about… the accident? I mean…"

      "Okay first off mate, it was no fucking accident," Dominic replied in a steelier tone than Viggo had yet heard from him. Viggo nodded.

      "Sorry, I…"

      "It's just, not an accident. And as for me, I recovered. Bills took care of me, you know?" A fond smile. "I was bloodied up, a couple of cracked ribs, but none too worse for the wear. Scared me, of course, but I just learned to be a little more cautious. Can't get all over him in public anymore, but then I never really could, I guess. Illusion or safety, or maybe I had a guardian angel somewhere…"

      "You like the nasty stuff, don't you?" Billy interrupted, his eyes focused on Viggo with a look of cool, determined anger. Not the type you'd like to meet in a darkened alley after you'd beaten up his boyfriend, indeed. "Sensationalist journalism, right? You invite yourself into our homes and then tell our sad fecking stories…"

      "Bills…"

      "No Dom. Let me finish. I think this man has some explaining to do. Why the fuck do you want to know these things, can you tell me that? Because I don't understand why someone would get such a bloody kick out of another man's pain… you don't get it, do you? I watched my boyfriend lying in a fucking pool of blood, and I bet you're grinning inside because it'll make such a nice tragic 'human angle'…"

      "Billy, remember…"

      "No, Dommeh! I think this man has some explaining to do, after you so kindly let him into our home." Billy's eyes were shooting daggers, and a lesser man would have been terrified, but Viggo stood his ground. This was it, this emotion… this was real. So, levelling his eyes with Billy's, Viggo did something he hadn't done in quite a long time. He told the truth.

      "My lover died in Kosovo," Viggo admitted, his tone calm and level as Dom gasped audibly. "The shelling was bad, really fucking bad, but that was Dave… always had to get the story, you know? He wanted people to see, the real pain that these people were facing everyday, the looks in the mothers' eyes. He always had hoped for change, for a sense of social responsibility to kick these governments in the arse and make people realize… he wanted to be a lawyer, originally. Wanted to work for the UN or Amnesty International, but he decided to take pictures instead, thought the visual impact would make more of a difference than the law ever could. Still, if he had been a lawyer… well, if Dave had been a lawyer, I wouldn't be sitting here beside you today."

      There was a pregnant silence, as Billy continued to stare, almost sizing Viggo up, and then Dominic reached out, and squeezed his hand, and the moment was past. "Did you see him?" Dominic whispered. "Before…"

      "Yes. I was on assignment not far away, in Poland. Walesa had just been elected, but there were still Soviet troops, and I was doing a story… well in any event, I was able to get a jet in the moment I heard. He was in a military hospital there… the war hadn't started yet, officially, but there was street violence everywhere, ethnic spats against the Albanians, and… it was brutal. I've watched people die, more times than I care to count, but I couldn't handle that. I saw his body, still alive but ripped to shreds like that, barely recognizable. He… he opened his mouth, and he could still talk, but barely. He just whispered it, you know, the last 'I love you,' and I couldn't take it… I didn't want to believe. I walked out of that tent, sure that it was just a big fucking nightmare, and when I turned around and came back, he was dead."

      "Jesus," Billy uttered, and this time the only undertone was respect.

      "Yeah. Well, you know, I threw myself into my work. The next five years I did some of my best work, really dangerous stuff sometimes, or emotionally dangerous, at least. I was paid well, and my editors were happy, but I might as well have been dead. I had checked out, and I think the only reason I could handle some of it was that I was emotionally numb. I didn't mind danger because I knew, in my heart, that I deserved to die. I hoped that I would see Dave, you know, after… but I wasn't sure. I wasn't so sure we would wind up in the same place, but I was well on my way to finding out. Anyway, before anything too dramatic could happen, I had this interview. Guy killed three men and a teenaged boy… his teenaged son. During the trial he was given the chance to tell his story, and I was picked for the job. I didn't know all the details, but when I found out… well basically, this guy was a Neo-Nazi. He was extremely right wing, white supremacist, all that shit, but when he found out his son was queer he went insane. Murdered him, his lover, and two friends. Brutally raped, beat, and then murdered. I mean I'm talking to this man, who is telling me, completely straight-faced, how he raped his seventeen-year old son, and how the boy deserved it, and I just lost it. I hadn't gotten mad in five years, not at all, but I snapped. I decked the guy, and was hauled out of there, fists still flying, and they never put me on the tough stories again." Viggo paused, and the room was full with the silence. No one spoke for a moment, until he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the case. "Well, I guess you didn't ask for my story, exactly. I'll be going now…"

      "Wait." Billy held a hand out, beckoning. "Stay."

      "I…"

      "What I said… well, don't worry about it. I assumed, and I had no right. You never can be too careful, but... please. You staying in a hotel, Viggo?" A nod. "Then you go get a good night's rest, but come back tomorrow. We'll meet for brunch; say ten at that same café? We might be able to give you some ideas of who to interview, and you can take more photographs if you like."

      Viggo nodded, and put his recorder away, rising to his feet. "That sounds fine to me. Thank you, both of you, for being honest," he added with a slight smile. "So I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

      "Yeah. Tomorrow." Billy nodded, but Dominic just stepped forward and pulled Viggo into a wordless hug. Viggo left the room without saying another word.

     

      "Jesus, Billy! Did you have to go all psycho on him? Way to go! I mean all we have to do is keep him in town, and…"

      "Dominic! Need I remind you of your own quite emotional reaction? It's a touching story, yes, but you're making a mistake, Dommeh. You care about him."

      Dominic glared at Billy, refusing to back down, and he knew that he was the only one who could really stand up to Billy like that and make an impact on the man. "This isn't about me, Billy. You started caring before he ever opened his mouth."

      Billy sighed, and turned, and fastened the deadbolt before heading to the bedroom. Dominic was right. Always was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should first apologise for the infuriatingly short chapter; this is just how it best broke into bits and things always look _so_ much longer in Microsoft Word. A million thank yous for all the feedback last part, pleasse keep it up! I love to hear what everyone thinks and know who's reading. So, in this part, Viggo again meets with Dom and Billy, he plans his next destination, and the reader is further confused by what the Monaboyd are up to.

     When Viggo arrived at the café the next morning, Billy and Dominic were already there, sharing a croissant and drinking strong coffee. They exchanged pleasantries, and Viggo ordered his own breakfast before sitting across the same table from the two young men.

      "So Billy, I wanted to ask you about something you said last night."

      "Certainly."

      "I was listening to the tape again, and I noticed something you left out. About Connemara, you said there was someone…." Viggo trailed off and Billy smiled knowingly.

      "You're quite the investigator, aren't you then?" Viggo nodded non-committaly, but Billy didn't look annoyed, just matter-of-fact. "Yes, there was someone in Connemara. We had a brief fling, but he was looking for someone and, well, I wasn't it."

      "Oh. What was his name?" Viggo asked, jotting notes on a miniature memo pad he had produced from his shirt pocket.

      "Harry."

      "Right, okay then. So when do you two normally start playing?"

      "Around eleven," Dominic replied. "A bit before the lunch rush, and it's Saturday so the tourists will be out early. You want to photograph us again?"

      "Well… yes." Viggo hesitated, twirling his pen in observance of nervous habit. "I don't need any more shots of you playing though. I'd like to photograph you more casually. You know, just doing whatever it is you do." Dominic laughed at this response, slapping Viggo companionably on the knee.

      "Well, mate, come along then. Let's finish this breakfast and I'll show you 'what it is we do.'"

      Viggo smiled and nodded, and they finished their meal engaged in light small talk. Viggo told them about his apartment in New York, and Sean, and the job he had left. Dominic gave him the names of some good pubs in Cork, and answered some of his questions about Germany. When they finished breakfast, with half an hour to kill, Dominic led the way to a shadowy alley, just behind St. Paul's Shopping Centre, and shot Viggo a devious grin.

      "You want to photograph what we do, mate. This is what we do," he announced, and Billy rolled his eyes as he was pushed up against the wall and engaged in a kiss which was, truth be told, quite aggressive for just after ten in the morning.

      Viggo raised his eyebrows, waiting for Dominic to stop, but realized very quickly that he wouldn't until Viggo took a photograph, and so he quickly unzipped his camera, checking that it was loaded with black-and-white film, and took a few shots of Dom and Billy, kissing passionately in the late morning light.

      Once they had indulged themselves thusly for a while, Dominic pulled away, laughing, and took Billy's hand, letting Viggo fall into step beside them as they headed back towards Patrick Street.

      "You don't mind if I publish those?" Viggo asked, looking more at Billy than at Dominic. "I don't want to cause any trouble for you."

      "You're writing about our story, Viggo. You're going to cause trouble," Billy pointed out. "Might as well provide your readers with accurate photographic evidence." He shrugged, and Viggo felt distinctly uncomfortable, but he didn't comment, just shooting dutifully as Dominic dug a few crackers from his pocket and threw crumbs to the pigeons with Billy smiling over his shoulder. He continued to shoot as Dominic stood in the shop windows, commenting on the trinkets he was eyeing as Billy stood behind him, his thumbs tucked protectively in Dominic's belt loops in a rare display of intimacy. They thumbed through some traditional CDs in a music shop for a few minutes, and then headed to the same spot as yesterday, setting up as Viggo took his spot on the bench.

      Viggo did a few more shots of the two busking, smiling as he caught a five-year old girl in his frame, step dancing energetically as Dom got to his knees and played just for her, a brilliant smile lighting his smoky eyes. After an hour, he went and brought back a few sandwiches from O'Briens, and then, getting bored, signalled to the boys that he would be back and ambled back in the direction of the sandwich shop. He was momentarily waylaid by the bright yellow travel shop, and grinned when he saw the advert proudly boasting fifteen-euro flights to Rome. After inquiring inside, he purchased a ticket for the next afternoon, and then headed back to his friends to finish up and thank them for their time.

     

      "Italy?? What the hell just happened?? God Dommeh, we are so fucked!" Billy exclaimed, wringing his hands as he paced back and forth across the small flat. "We've got to stop him, somehow. Or warn him…"

      "You know we can't do that, Bills. _He_'s completely out of contact right now, and he hasn't been back to his villa in weeks. We have one job, and we've got to do it. Look, we know his flight number at least, so we'll keep track of him… and maybe we can head him off tomorrow morning, at the hotel. You never know…"

      "Right, Dommeh. You never know. I think that, my love, may be our very problem."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for the positive feedback. Sorry part two was so frustratingly short, but this one reveals a bit more (and raises more questions as well, as mysteries are apt to do). Note that the photo used for this banner is for once *not* my own, as I have never been to Venice or seen this lovely cathedral myself. Also if anyone wants to help or give me photoshop tips to keep the edges of photos from looking so untidy, let me know!

      It was nearly noon when Viggo's plane touched down in Rome. Having gotten a satisfactory parting interview the previous evening, he had turned down his new friends' requests to stay in Cork just a few more days, explaining that he wanted to visit as many locales as possible, and meet as many people as he could. He even managed to catch an early flight out, and so little did he know that as he stepped out onto the tarmac that very morning, Dominic and Billy were standing in a hotel room in Cork, alone, cursing the Gods themselves.

      "Uh, perdonne signore. Io… va a centre?" The cabbie just smiled at Viggo's pathetic excuse for Italian and nodded, gesturing for him to throw his bag in the boot and get in. The guy drove like the devil, but at least it was on the right side of the road, obviating the need Viggo always experienced in the UK to flinch whenever a left turn was made.

      The hotel itself was quite sparse, but it would do, and Viggo didn't care much about the accommodation anyway, as long as the location was decent for people watching. And that it was, right in the city centre and overlooking one of the busiest streets in Rome. Viggo spent the afternoon wandering through the piazzas and drinking espresso in convenient Styrofoam takeaway cups, looking for someone interesting enough to photograph. There wasn't a shortage of people, that was for sure, but no one really caught Viggo's eye, and he went home at the end of the night empty handed, hoping for better luck tomorrow.

      Indeed, when the next day dawned, better look appeared to be in store. The sun was shining pleasantly through Viggo's window, and after a quick shower he headed down for a cup of coffee and a light breakfast, prepared to spend another day searching for the perfect subjects.

      It didn't take long, as when Viggo approached the steps of a particularly beautiful cathedral, he found himself looking at the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

      One might consider this an exaggeration, and maybe it was, but who has time to catalogue all the men one has ever seen upon meeting a new one, anyway? Viggo knew at least that this man was unnaturally, ethereally beautiful, and the scene was just too perfect. At the feet of a marble angel, slouched on steps of the same glistening material, the man, almost still a boy, rested with his chin his hands, a pensive expression on his face, looking out straight in front of him.

      From the angle at which Viggo stood, he could see that the figure was clad in black, the sleeves of a cotton track jacket obscuring his fingers, his trainers likewise barely peeking out from beneath his trousers. His chin was in his hands, which were brushed by deep brown curls, framing the young man's face and making him look almost more angelic than the statue, if it weren't for the moustache and goatee that suggested age and at least a little worldly experience. Viggo had to check himself from sighing audibly when he held the viewfinder to his eye, composing the shot, and grinned as his finger depressed the shutter release. Brilliant.

      Unfortunately, however, the moment was lost as he lowered his camera and his subject suddenly turned to his left, catching Viggo's eye and panicking. His eyes went wide, and though Viggo held up his hands as if to reassure the stranger that he meant no harm by photographing, it was too late. The beautiful boy had already swung his legs gracefully over the low wall and disappeared on the other side. Viggo ran for the side of the church as quickly as possible, but he emerged empty-handed when the back of the building proved to be the terminus of four separate streets. Any one of these avenues could have been his subject's route, and so, defeated, Viggo slumped against the wall and attempted to compose himself, left only with the frail hope that he might see this phantom once again.

     

      As luck would have it, it was two days before Viggo spotted the captivating figure for the second time. Those two days led him around Rome, seeing the sights and the citizens but ultimately unfulfilled. He looked for a new subject, but he knew in his heart of hearts that none other would do. The mysterious youth would be his only subject in Italy, and he must find him or die trying.

      Fortunately for Viggo, death was not in the cards for this mission. The man, in fact, appeared quite unexpectedly when Viggo was sipping espresso at a corner café, riding by on a moped. He tried to call the beauty, but got no response, and he cursed as he watched the man round the corner. Throwing a few bills on the table, he hurried to follow, and was overjoyed when he spotted the moped parked outside a building a ways down the street. However, by the time Viggo had covered the distance, the man was hurrying out of the office and hopping on the bike, peeling off without a backward glance. Viggo cursed loudly, upsetting a few small children who were kicking around a football in an alley, and sighed as he walked to where he had seen the man just a moment before.

      The office was a travel agency, and holding out some hope, Viggo stepped inside, addressing the man at the counter in careful Italian.

      "Ciao. Um, perdonne, ma non parlo italiano. The man, that just left…" He paused and pointed out the door, getting a shrug and an apologetic look from the man he was speaking to. Sighing, Viggo tried again. "The man, le garcon? Uh…" Helplessly, Viggo made a twirling gesture near his hair, held his hand up a bit above his own head, and then put both flat palms together in a sign for "thin."

      "Ah, si signore! Orlando!"

      "Orlando? That's his name?" Viggo grinned, and then realized the man had no idea what he was saying. "Right, um… where is he going?" he asked, pointing at the map behind the counter. "Dove…"

      "Ah, Firenze!" the man replied with a smile.

      "Firenze, right… Florence. Grazie, signore! Molto grazie!" The man just smiled silently as Viggo nearly tripped over his own two feet in his haste to leave the office and get back to his hotel. He, after all, had bags to pack.

     

      "Hey Gina!" the travel agent called towards the back office when the blundering American man had left.

      "Yeah?" The Italian-American intern emerged, a sheaf of papers in her hands.

      "What do you think young Orlando is up to? He didn't even buy a ticket this time, just told me that an American man would be in, and to play dumb and send him to Firenze…" Gina shrugged and smiled.

      "Maybe he's trying to get rid of someone, Luigi. Wouldn't be the first time." Luigi laughed and turned back to his computer, loading up 'Solitaire' and ignoring the incident for the time being.

     

      The next two weeks for Viggo were nothing but frustration. The captivating figure was almost toying with him, a playful smile seen from across the canal in Venice, a little wave from the ground as he stood on a third story balcony in a hotel in Pisa, a honk from a car horn as the little Fiat passed him in Lucca. The man's trail was deceptively easy to follow, but he only stayed in one location for a couple of days, and once Viggo arrived, he found it almost impossible to track down his target. This infuriating but beautiful man was calling all the shots, and Viggo had asked himself more than once if it were worth it. Why did he take up the chase in the first place?

      But, the answer was all-too clear. He loved it. Viggo liked simplicity, and he liked knowing all the answers, but it had been all too long since he let himself be caught up in the thrill of the chase. It had been years since he had put himself on a trail, like a hunter whose prey was simply information… he used to be an excellent journalist, but he knew he had fallen off his game. He began as an idealist, then was motivated by love, then anger and the drive to forget… but for years now, he had no motivation. He was lost in the sea of information technology and young hot shots, and it wasn't until this man, this mysterious angelic figure, that he had met his match. Here, with the classical beauty of the ancient cities of Europe as a backdrop, he had picked up a trail again. He would not let off that trail until he found what he was looking for.

      "Sir?"

      Viggo turned around, wrenched out of his thoughts by a soft American voice, and halted abruptly in the street. A slight young man, pale as if he were a ghost, with wide blue eyes and a shock of dishevelled dark hair, held up a coin in Viggo's direction. "You dropped this," he explained unnecessarily as their fingers brushed, handing over the two-Euro piece.

      "Thank you," Viggo replied with a smile. "I…"

      "Wait!" The stranger stopped him suddenly with a raised hand, dropping to grip Viggo's shoulder, and Viggo gasped as the man's eyes went pale, a shockingly pale blue that reminded him overwhelmingly of ice. He watched as the man's skin, too, became impossibly paler, and his muscles seized up tight, as if he were turning to stone before Viggo's very eyes. Viggo, too, paled, and his eyes darted frantically around the street to see if anyone could help, but they were alone. Time stood suspended for a moment, ten seconds, maybe, before the man jolted away with a gasp, stumbling backwards several steps.

      "Are you all right?" Viggo asked, cautiously, as the stranger continued to stare at him. "Did you have a seizure? Can I get you anything?"

      The man stared at him another moment, then shook his head, as if snapping out of it, and gestured Viggo towards a doorway. "Come. Please." Viggo stared, and the man nodded again towards the door, holding it open. "Please. Come inside."

      Viggo hesitated, and then, taking a deep breath, relented, following the man up a narrow flight of stairs and into an apartment on the first story. He sat on a small sofa when the other man indicated, and watched as he slowly lowered himself into an armchair opposite Viggo, scooting closer in the process.

      "Your hands, please. Give me your hands."

      Viggo stared, speechless for a moment, and then decided to reason his way out of it. "Look, sir, I don't even know your name…"

      "Elijah. And you are Viggo." Viggo's eyes widened, but the man who called himself Elijah didn't react. "Please, Viggo. Give me your hands. You must believe me, I… I can see things. It's a gift, but we don't have much time. Just give me your hands, please."

      Viggo was still sceptical, but something about the young man compelled him to obey, slowly unfolding his palms and extending them towards Elijah, where the young man held them loosely in his own lap. Viggo watched, then, transfixed, as Elijah's eyes again became pale as new-fallen snow, casting an eerie glow over the darkened room. Though it was late afternoon, there were no lamps turned on, and Viggo was drawn to the light pooling in the other man's eyes as if by an external force. They stared at each other for long moments, eyes locked, when suddenly Elijah spoke.

     "I am not yours to discover," he whispered, his voice deep and in an inflection not his own. The words came from his lips, and yet Viggo sensed that Elijah didn't himself intend them, speaking from some other source. Then suddenly, Elijah started, as he had in the street, and dropped Viggo's hands, the connection broken.

      "I must give you some advice," Elijah announced, rubbing his temples with two fingers and suddenly looking much older than his years. He seemed not to have realised that he had spoken, Viggo noted, and he didn't mention it. "I have seen… you, Viggo, are part of something much bigger than you know. You are searching for something, am I correct? For someone…" Viggo nodded, motioning for Elijah to continue. "Beware of the path you choose. It may not be the one you are destined to follow."

      "I don't understand."

      "No matter what path you choose, your steps are determined for you. But it is only by choice that you will find your true love. You will find him, whether you are aware of it or not. But he can only be found by the steps that you take."

      "I… who is he? Is it the man? The man I'm following?" Elijah smiled ruefully and shrugged his shoulders.

      "Follow the clues, and you will find the love you seek. That is all I can say."

      "But… I don't understand!" Viggo insisted. "What about… I mean, my true love… I've found him already." Elijah smiled sadly, and nodded. "He died…"

      "Love moves in mysterious ways, Viggo. You loved once, and you will love again. Perhaps he only made you better so that you can experience your destiny… but only time will tell."

      "I don't…"

      "It is time for you to go. Hurry! You must leave now; go to your hotel, immediately. It is there where you will find what you need to know."

     

      Not five minutes after Viggo had left, the downstairs door slammed. Elijah sighed, having known it would happen, and lit a cigarette. He stepped out on the balcony, knowing that Orlando would find him there, and waited a few beats until the enraged young man joined him.

      "He was here, wasn't he?!"

      "Why Orlando, whatever do you mean?" Elijah replied in a weak attempt at humour.

      "I saw him, 'Lijah. I was waiting across from his hotel, to give him the slip again, and he came running by. Didn't even notice me! He looked as if he'd seen a ghost, Lijah! Looked as if he'd seen _you_." Elijah sighed and leaned over the railing, not denying it. "What the hell did you tell him, Elijah? He wasn't supposed to see you!"

      "And yet, my dear Orlando, you led him to this very town. You try so hard to keep me well protected, hidden away in this apartment—does it seem to you rather odd that you led him straight here? Like maybe you wanted to…?"

      "Don't tell me what I want to do, Elijah! I needed to check up on you, make sure _he_ hadn't gotten to you yet…"

      "'He,' Orlando? You make it sound as if the man you love is instead the villain in this tale," Elijah pointed out.

      "I'm only protecting him! I was only protecting you! How the hell did Viggo find you, anyway?"

      "He didn't. I found him."

      "Oh bloody…"

      "His spirit called to me from the street, Orlando. I couldn't reject him."

      "Stop it!" Orlando yelled, throwing his hands up and frightening the birds on the rooftops into migration. "Just… stop it, 'Lij. I don't want to hear it. You scared him off, and now I have to figure out how to make it right."

      "You can't lead him on this chase forever, Orlando."

      "Yeah, but I can sure as hell try."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes out to all you wonderful people who leave feedback and make me grin. I was feeling kind of fandom-depressed as a relative newbie who doesn't generally get much, and you all just make my month with your replies to this story. I'm finally starting to feel welcome here. So, now, as a gift to you, the part wherein... (almost) everything is revealed. But it's only the halfway point, so don't let your guard down too much *cackles evilly*.

      When Viggo arrived at his hotel, there was a message waiting for him.

      _Viggo,  
      If you want to catch him, take the train to Montpellier immediately. From the  
      Gare SCNF, proceed straight to the Place de la Comedie. Find a woman named   
      Liv, an American, long dark hair and a dark suit. She will lead you to him.  
      - A friend_

      Viggo turned the note over in his hand, reading the words seven, nine times. English, not Italian, faxed from an unknown number. The time on the fax said 15:02. At first he thought Elijah had sent it, but that was impossible, for he was with Elijah until at least five after three. No, it had to be someone else. Either way, there obviously wasn't much time to spare. He would have to trust this unknown "friend," and so he quickly packed his things and made for the local train station.

      He was able to get a train to Genoa right away, and from there by way of Nice to Montpellier. It was late in the evening by the time he arrived, but not yet fully dark. Fortunately, his French was much better than his Italian, and he was quickly able to ascertain that yes, the Place de la Comedie is straight up the street there, follow the tram tracks to the top of the hill and there you are. It was lovely at night, and if he had the time he would have stopped to remark at the colours, the activity. A carousel chimed merrily to one side of the square, couples milled on the steps of the opera house, and teenagers headed in hoards to the air-conditioned MacDo.

      It was, however, the fountain that drew his attention. Bubbling merrily in the centre of the square, it was flanked by statues of angels—quite similar, in fact, to the one underneath he had seen his very own angel just a few weeks ago. Smiling, he approached the fountain and was doubly rewarded when he found a woman standing there, dark hair flowing loose, smart black suit, sensible pumps.

      "Liv?" he asked, approaching her slowly and with a questioning expression. She smiled, looking all business, and extended a hand.

      "Viggo. Please, come with me."

      Viggo had little choice in the matter, but he followed her dutifully, across the square and in the direction of the huge Polygonne shopping centre. Using an escalator by Sauramps bookstore to access the lower level, Liv led the way into a vast underground parking garage, holding out a key ring and identifying her vehicle with a pleasant mechanical chirp. Viggo raised his eyebrow when she gestured to the passenger seat, but she seemed hardly willing to negotiate.

      "Please. If you want to find him, you have little time." Viggo sighed and acquiesced, climbing into the Jaguar and keeping his eyes focused out the window as Liv left the garage, paid the attendant, and pulled out into downtown Montpellier. Viggo tried to follow the pattern of the streets she took, but after the third roundabout was rather much lost. The centre of Montpellier was accessible only by pedestrians, and quite easy to navigate, but the outer parts of the city were very confusing and full of one-way streets and complicated parking zones. He was able to ascertain that they were moving northwest out of the city, however, and by the time they were zooming through the suburbs on the N109 Liv seemed to have relaxed considerably.

      "So, I have a confession to make," Liv announced with a pleasant little smile that unnerved Viggo more than he wanted to admit.

      "What's that?"

      "Well… the man you're looking for?"

      "Yes?"

      "…isn't exactly the man I'm taking you to."

      "What?!?" Viggo exclaimed, eyes going wide as Liv simply fixed him with a sympathetic smile.

      "I swear to God, this is for the best, and you'll see when we get there. But I just didn't want you to be surprised, you know, when it's… well, not Orlando," Liv explained.

      "You know Orlando?"

      "I do, yes."

      "Well if you know him then why can't you lead me to him??" Viggo asked, exasperated.

      "Well first of all, I don't know exactly where he is, and neither does Harry. Orlando isn't exactly on the map right now, but lucky for us Harry was able to call in a favour to a friend, who was able to determine your own whereabouts, and therefore leave a message at your hotel, leading you to me. I would assume, given the location you left from, that he is with Elijah right now."

      "Harry?" The name sounded familiar, but in his rage Viggo couldn't place it. "And how do you know Elijah?" Viggo felt vaguely sick, realising that he had been duped, and furthermore, that he had just left Orlando's trail altogether. But Orlando… at least now, he had a name.

      "Elijah is… well you've met him. He tends to pop up whenever he's needed most. And as for Harry, you're going to meet him now, and he will explain much more to you than I can. I'm simply helping him out as a friend, but believe me. Harry knows much more about Orlando than anyone."

      "Great…" Viggo sank down in his seat and shook his head. "This is why I date men, you know. Can never trust a woman."

      Liv just laughed gleefully and continued to navigate the dark country roads, moving further and further away from civilization. It was almost ten when she finally pulled into a grand, circular driveway in front of a very impressive house. Or… mansion, really, as that was all you could fairly call it. It looked like a miniature of Versailles, or maybe one of the palaces outside London, far from just a normal house. He briefly considered fleeing, but there on the wide front steps was the man that supposedly had all the answers. If Liv wasn't lying again, and this man really knew about Orlando… well he was that much closer to solving the mystery. Sighing at his own situation, he quickly exited the car and slung his bag over his shoulder.

      "Harry, I presume?" he asked in a tired voice, approaching the steps. The man was of an average height, maybe an inch taller than Viggo, with wavy brown hair worn shoulder length. He was dressed in loose grey trousers and a buttoned black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and had a strangely commanding air. King of his castle, Viggo thought to himself, and it didn't seem so far from the truth.

      The man seemed startled to see him, at first, despite his confident posture. He stared at Viggo for a moment, almost as someone experiencing déjà vu, and then quickly reached out and offered Viggo his hand.

      "Viggo Mortensen. Such a pleasure to finally meet you." Viggo raised his eyebrow, still quite curious as to who the man was and what he was doing here. "You may go no now, Liv. Thank you," Harry spoke over Viggo's shoulder, and Viggo felt more than a little nervous as his one ride nodded and headed off. "Viggo, please. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you, and you have nowhere else to go, for tonight at least. It's already getting late. Let me show you to a guestroom, and if you still want to leave in the morning, I'm happy to drive you back to Montpellier. Ça suffit?" Viggo hesitated a moment, and then nodded, awkwardly allowing Harry to take his bag and following Harry upstairs to a room where he dropped the bag and finally turned to address Viggo.

     "I know it's a little strange, a man living all alone in a palace such as this. My mum says I should hire a staff, but… I don't know. I find it hard to trust other people so easily," Harry explained with an apologetic smile.

      "Well isn't that ironic," Viggo mumbled under his breath.

      "Please, Viggo. There is much that needs to be explained. I'll tell you what. You're writing a book, am I correct?" Viggo nodded, dumfounded. "Well come downstairs with me, then. Bring your tape recorder. I've prepared a plentiful supper, and you can eat and refresh yourself, keep the recorder on in the dining room, and I'll tell you my story. I promise I won't try to poison you," he added with a kind smile, and Viggo just sighed as he unpacked his equipment, not seeing any better plan at the moment. He was, after all, rather hungry.

      It was downstairs, sitting at Harry's right hand in the rather ostentatious grand dining room and eating partridge, that Viggo began to feel a bit dwarfed by his surroundings.

      "I was born in 1959 in Auckland," Harry began, apparently oblivious to his guest's discomfort. "However, my story begins far before my own birth. Nearly four hundred years before, in fact." Harry smiled, as if recalling a particularly fond memory, and settled in his high-backed chair as Viggo set down his fork and adjusted the microphone to his liking. "King Henry III, as you may know, was the last of the Valois Dynasty in France. He was born in 1551, and died in 1589. What is most relevant here, however, is a certain scandalous propensity of the King's. You see, Henry was quite known for being a transvestite," Harry revealed with a grin, and Viggo couldn't help but smile in return at this salacious historical detail.

      "The King would dress quite frequently in women's clothes, and he enjoyed keeping the company of certain young men, known as his 'mignons.' He was married in 1575, but a fact known by very few is that the marriage was never in fact consummated. Any sexual activity in which Henry engaged was limited to these 'mignons,' and in particular one favourite of his, a young man of noble upbringing by the name of Sinclaire de Beauchamp. Now Henry was generally disrespected for his peculiar manner of frivolity, but he was able as monarch to assure that Sinclaire was well cared-for and established him in one of his palaces in the Languedoc, far south of Paris and Henry's worst critics.

      "It was perhaps this decision to house Sinclaire in the Languedoc that saved him, for none at court knew what really transpired between the two, or at least the extent of it. I believe the relationship between these two men could quite simply be defined as true love, and in fact, I can prove this beyond a reasonable doubt, but that will come later…

      Viggo raised his eyebrows, but did not speak, allowing Harry to continue the story in his comfortably rolling cadence. "Henry, having had no intercourse with his wife, had no desire to produce an heir. He did, however, want to preserve the legacy of his love, and in order to do so he quietly contacted Sinclaire's sister, Jeanne. Jeanne, in fact, was the only woman with which Henry ever performed sexual acts with, and in doing so Jeanne de Beauchamp became perhaps the world's first surrogate mother.

      "After several couplings, Jeanne was able to produce a child. Of course, not having been born of Henry's wife, the boy was not a legitimate heir to the French throne, but Henry was not troubled. He cared little for the destiny of his line and was more concerned with the boy's well being, as well as that of his lover's. The sister was sworn to secrecy, and it was Sinclaire who raised the child, visited frequently by Henry himself.

      "As you may know, Henry III was eventually murdered in the War of the Three Henrys and then succeeded by Henry IV, a protestant. When the Bourbon line was thus established, Sinclaire kept the child's parentage a secret, in order to avoid undue attention. He and his son lived comfortably in the Languedoc for years, and though there were whispers, the story of Sinclaire de Beauchamp soon passed into legend and later, myth."

 

      "But if it is only a myth, how do you…" Viggo began. Harry just smiled and held up his hand, effectively silencing the curious other man.

      "I'm getting to that. You see, few knew the true story, but Sinclaire had the foresight to keep extremely meticulous notes on the story of his relationship with Henry and the birth of their child, along with very clear instructions regarding the passing down of these notes and the importance of a certain prophecy, which I will explain later in my story. The notes were preserved in a bundle and kept in a special box, made with the wood of a hickory tree native to the Languedoc and bearing the Valois King's seal, fastened with decorative golden lock. The key was carefully passed down, through the generations, from father to eldest son, the line remaining unbroken for centuries.

      "Each generation knew the story of the two men, their love, and their child, and each father passed the key down in turn to his son so that he would learn about the family history. You may wonder how this could be done so meticulously, especially with the homophobia that runs rampant throughout the lines of history. I am sure that some of the men of this line _were_ ashamed of their ancestors, however the notes warned of a powerful curse that would befall the man who failed to successfully pass the notes down, and none risked the consequences of such a curse. I imagine that some of the men, having read through the notes once, never looked upon them again, but they passed down the box and its key, and that was all they were required to do.

      "For many years, the ancestors of the first child, named Alexandre-Edouard after his father's given name, lived in relative peace in the palace. The Languedoc was a region not greatly troubled by conflict, especially after its governor was forced to reside at Versailles in the time of Louis XIV, ending a rebellion against the King of France. The family was quite wealthy, having acquired much from Henry's will and more due to the success of the estates its members oversaw, but in 1793 was forced to leave France due to the fear of persecution. Even though the royal connection was not publicly known, the family nonetheless lived on lands that had formerly belonged to the Crown, and was a part of the landed aristocracy that was greatly suffering during the Reign of Terror. For reasons that will later become clear to you, it was very important to maintain the family line, and so the Beauchamps fled to England, taking up the name of Sinclair in honour of the man for whom their line was begun, and ceasing to speak French outside the home.

      "The Sinclairs remained in England for years, purchasing land in the south of the country and eventually selling their French estate, after ensuring that a certain secret kept there would remain secret until the appointed time. That secret," Harry explained when Viggo opened his mouth to speak, "is part of the prophecy I have alluded to, and will explain at the end of my story. In any event, the estate, which had been kept by stewards, was sold, and the family lived comfortably in England until the twentieth century. The family fortune had grown to quite impressive proportions by this time, as you can imagine, and wise investment meant that the men of the family rarely had to work to keep their family comfortable. However, in 1940, it became painfully obvious to my grandfather that in order to keep his family safe, he had to leave England.

      "The war, as you can imagine, had escalated considerably by that point, and southern England was particularly vulnerable to air attack. Using his considerable influence and resources, my grandfather left our lands in the hands of a caretaker, and moved his wife and my two-year old father to New Zealand. As always, that sacred box and its golden key were handed down from father to son, and so my father, safe in an Auckland mansion, read the story that I have just explained to you, added to over the years by family members who added their pages to the originals in the box. And it was in 1977, when I reached the age of my majority, that my father then entrusted the box, and the key, to me. Impressive story, isn't it?" Harry noted with a grin.

      Viggo just stared at the other man, trying to piece together all this information and his significance. If what Harry said was true, then he was probably the most direct living descendant of the French royal line. The story was amazingly compelling, enough even to distract Viggo for the moment from his failure to find the young man he had been seeking out all this time. However, there was still one question.

      "What then, of the prophecy you keep mentioning? What is it?" Viggo asked.

      "Ah, well here is where it really gets interesting. You see, Viggo, you have spent the past weeks stringing together a mystery, putting together pieces of a puzzle, so to speak. I know more than you realize, and I see how frustrating it is to you to assemble this story… but would it surprise you to find that it is not, in fact, Orlando who provides the missing piece? You have, after all, been chasing a mirage, my friend. The one who holds the key to this mystery is, in fact, yourself."

      "You… what… I…" Viggo stuttered for a moment, then stopped and stared openly at Harry. "I don't understand. Orlando _is_ the mystery. It is he that I have been chasing, and nothing else. How can I be part of a puzzle that I don't even know the existence of?" Harry just laughed and shook his head.

      "Is it really so unusual, really, that you might be part of a destiny of which you are not informed? The great events of history, after all, are only clear in hindsight. You are not expected to understand everything, only that your search for Orlando is significant as part of a greater story. You see, my dear Viggo, you have been looking so hard for Orlando in these past weeks, but at the same time, I have been spending my entire life looking for you."

      "For me?"

      "Yes. I realize this comes as a shock to you, and I do understand. I myself realize how compelling Orlando can be, and how rewarding it is to chase him…" Harry paused a moment, smiling at a memory. "…but he is not in fact what you are looking for. Orlando may yet have a part to play, I suspect, but now we must continue in the story to understand why it is you, and not Orlando, that forms the key element. Shall I continue, then?"

      "Please."

      "Right. Now the prophecy… this is the crux of this fascinating tale. I have spent my entire life studying and rereading my family's history, but it is the prophecy that all revolves around, a prophecy so detailed that it is hardly possible to believe. Yet thus far, all has been proven true." Harry laughed at Viggo's confused expression.

      "I guess I should start, once again, at the beginning. Let us go back, for a second, to the fifteen hundreds. Now at the time of Henry III, there was a very well respected seer in the Languedoc, by the name of François-Paul. This man had a rare gift, and many parents would bring their children to him for some sign of their future. Unlike false prophets that gave a detailed reading for anyone with a few coins, François-Paul did readings for the price of a jug of wine and a loaf of bread, and he did not always come up with much. Visions were not always forthcoming, and often they were vague. However, when Henry and Sinclaire brought the young Alec to him, he had the most vivid and detailed vision that was ever reported.

      "The details of this prophecy are recorded in two places. Part of what was said is in the notes I told you of, and was known by each of my ancestors in turn. The other part, no one but myself knew the entire truth of. Orlando now knows, but he is the only one."

      "How can you be sure of that?" Viggo asked, sceptical.

      "Well it's fairly simple. The part revealed in the notes was this. The line that began with Alec would be unbroken, father to son, for centuries. It was foreseen that Henry would meet an untimely death, and that Alec's line would therefore maintain a certain amount of secrecy from then on, concealing its true lineage and passing down the truth only from father to son in written form. As I have said, in the notes descendants are cautioned to pass the box and key down under penalty of a powerful curse, and above all to keep the information contained therein both secret and safe. Now the notes also mention a particular son, the last of the line. This final son will not produce an heir, and it is him that the secret prophecy concerns. According to the notes on the prophecy, this son will be born in a land far away, but he will return to France on the first day of his thirtieth year and reclaim his ancestral home, where the most secret part of the prophecy is contained. Again under threat of a powerful curse, the sons were cautioned not to attempt to recover the secret that is not theirs, and as far as I know, no one attempted it.

      "Now that brings us to me, and how I discovered that the secret prophecy was indeed mine to behold. When I turned eighteen and read the notes, I admit I had some inclination that I might be the one. I've preferred the company of men almost my entire life, and I had no desire to bear children. I would have, to preserve the line, if I had been forced, but that was not necessary. The notes stated that in this specific son's twentieth year, ten years before his return to France, he would have a powerful vision. And indeed, in the early morning hours of my twentieth birthday, a dream came to me. In it, there were a man and a woman—or so it appeared at first. The man was of slight build, dressed rather foppishly in ancient clothing of a bright blue shade. The woman wore bright red lipstick and kohl around her eyes, with styled hair and brilliant purple robes, but when I looked closer, I realized it was not a woman at all, but rather a man in woman's clothing. The man wore a crown of brilliant jewels, and I knew at once that these were my ancestors, King Henry and his lover Sinclaire.

      "I've never had very clear dreams, and rarely remember them the next day, but this one remained imprinted on my brain for years to come, and I still remember as clear as day the instructions the two men gave me of how I was to find the secret prophecy, hidden in this ancient palace. And so, from that day forward I studied French, delved deeper into the history that fascinated me, and prepared for my 30th birthday, when I would reclaim the prophecy.

      "It was surprisingly easy to buy the palace from the estate of its former owner, who just happened to die a few weeks before I turned thirty, and so I arrived on the appointed day, forgetting all else in my haste to find the prophecy. It was again a simple task, as I remembered the instructions as clearly as I do now, and after following a maze of underground tunnels I found the wooden box, identical to the one I've already described to you, along with a separately hidden key. Inside, never before read, was the full prophecy, written on parchment just as the old notes. It was in the ancien français, but I was used to this language from reading the notes along with their English translations, and it wasn't hard to decipher.

      "Now, Viggo, here is where you come in. The prophecy is deceptively simple. The King, coming to an untimely death, would be separated from his lover, both on earth and in heaven. Their story, apparently, is only one half of the foretold whole, and until this whole is completed the lovers cannot be reunited. They wait, in heaven, for the fulfilment of the prophecy and their eventual reunion. In order for this to happen, the descendant that was described, in other words, myself, would have to find his own true love. Until this half is carried out, until the son finds his love, the fathers cannot be again as one. And when it is carried out, when the lovers again find each other in the afterlife, the younger man is also promised a great prize, a prize 'of greater worth than all the jewels the French Empire could contain,' according to the prophecy."

      "But… how the hell am I involved? I mean, you're not in love with _me_!"

      Harry smiled indulgently and took a sip of his wine. "No, I'm not. But I will be. You see, Viggo, the prophecy continues to explain that the descendant in question will know his true love's countenance by way of another vision, this one twenty years later. And on my fortieth birthday, six years ago, I fell asleep and dreamed, just as clearly as the first time, of you." Viggo just stared, and Harry continued without allowing him an interruption.

      "I know this must come as a shock, but the dream was frighteningly clear. I saw your face, and then I knew, after ten years of searching, how I would recognize my lover. It was only two years after that when I could put a name to a face. In fact, you may remember. After 9/11, you were living in New York, and a reporter from CNN did an interview with you on what it was like to cover the story as it broke. Do you remember?" Viggo nodded mutely, and Harry smiled.

      "I saw you then, Viggo, and I knew it was you. I had to have you. I've bided my time, dreaming of you, and waiting for this day, for four years. And by the most unusual of circumstances, here you are!" Harry smiled with a flourish of his hands, but Viggo was not impressed.

      "I still don't get this… I mean, how do I know you're not just some psycho? And what about me? You may have been waiting for me, but if you haven't noticed, I'm still looking for Orlando. And I intend to find him," Viggo added, his eyes fiery. "With or without your help."

      "Ah, Orlando," Harry sighed, smiling fondly. "How you have affected my life's path. Viggo, it may amuse you to find that years ago, before I turned forty, I actually met Orlando for the first time, much as you did. In fact, I saw him across a square in Montpellier and was convinced that he was you. I thought that I had found my love before the vision even occurred, and I was determined to have him."

      Viggo just raised an eyebrow. "And did you?"

      "Yes. Orlando and I had a relationship, and not a bad one, but… well, we were together that night, when I had the dream, and I knew. I knew he was not my destiny."

      "I still think you're insane."

      Harry smiled. "I'll grant you that."

      "So how did it end?"

      "I told him of the prophecy. I told him, and he agreed to help me find you. Although… I suspect he was hurting, much more than helping. You see, the young Orlando has very little respect, I'm afraid, for inevitability."

     "I wasn't supposed to run into Orlando in Italy, was I?"

     "No."

     "I wasn't supposed to know of his existence, even."

     "Not ideally."

     "But I do. And maybe that's your first mistake."

     "Maybe." Harry nodded, neutral, and for some reason this reaction was quite unnerving. "More important, however, is the fact that you did see him, and you're still looking for him. I must warn you, Viggo. Whatever your intentions may be with regards to myself, this is not a wise course. And furthermore, you never will catch him."

     "How do you know?" Viggo asked, eyeing the mysterious stranger suspiciously.

     "Well I know, mon cher, that you weren't supposed to run into Orlando in the first place. I know that you did run into him, and for two days, he was all but lost to you. Correct?" Viggo nodded. "Now if Orlando had truly wished to remain hidden, not to clue you into his existence, he would have. Orlando is a smart man, and he knows the Italian countryside better than many of the Italians. But he didn't disappear, and you did see him again. Which leads me to believe that he wanted that to happen."

     Viggo furrowed his brow in confusion. "But if he wanted to see me, why didn't he just approach me, then? He must have known I was willing."

     "Oh, willing, certainly, but not for his purposes. You see, Viggo, Orlando did not want to see you, he wanted to mislead you. Specifically, he wanted to keep you from me. He wanted to delay, or perhaps destroy, the prophecy."

     "But it's a prophecy, right?" Viggo pointed out. "Like you said, it's inevitable."

     "Yes, yes it is. And here you are." Harry smiled disarmingly, and Viggo sighed, rubbing his temples as he pushed aside his clear plate. "Anyway, mon cher, the point is this—Orlando must have realized, after seeing you the first time, that perhaps the best way to keep you away from me, to keep you interested, was to continue to show up. Drop hints, even, anything that would keep your attention, keep you away from your project, and keep you in Italy. Without this interest, after all, you would be lost to Orlando, and he would have no way of knowing your whereabouts. You could be in Greece, Barcelona… Provence." Harry smiled ironically, and Viggo just sighed, suspicious of this man who was right all the time. "As long as he could keep an eye on you, he could ensure that I was ignorant of your whereabouts, and also ignorant of his involvement. After all, you would be very difficult to find if you kept moving, and Orlando himself is a master of remaining hidden. His plan, however, worked too well. You would do anything to follow his trail, and you made the mistake of running into Elijah. Elijah, who has powers that even Orlando cannot understand, powers almost reminiscent of that seer who prophesied our meeting so long ago. Elijah, who was not only able to convey some essential truths to you, but to capture Orlando's attention long enough for you to slip away. Long enough, mon cher, for you to follow yet another trail, hoping for Orlando. The trail, you see, that led you to me."

     Viggo just stared at Harry, and the other man smiled as he watched the pieces of the puzzle coming together. "Then… you mean… Elijah wanted this to happen? Elijah…"

     "Elijah loves Orlando. That much is clear. Either way, Elijah had reason not to help Orlando's cause too much. Elijah knew that it was not your destiny to find Orlando."

     "He is not mine to discover…" Viggo whispered, incredulous, and Harry smiled knowingly.

     "No, he is not. And neither is Orlando. Elijah, of course, cannot use his power to 'see' maliciously. His prophecies, his advice, are true, and he does not mangle with that gift. However, I would not be surprised if Elijah himself found some joy in the direction in which his revelations sent you, and in his own ability to command Orlando's attention once again."

     "So now what?"'

     "I don't know, mon cher. Not even Elijah could tell you that."

     "Well I suppose you're going to trap me here until I fall in love with you, right?"

     "No. That is completely unnecessary, as I know my fathers' peace will be assured as long as _I_ fall in love with _you_"

     "And have you?"

     "Not yet. But after so many years… well, it won't take much."

     "And as for the prize?"

     "That remains hidden to me. But if I do my duty, I am sure it will be revealed to me in time."

     "Your duty? So that's all you see falling in love with me as? A _duty_??" Viggo knew he was raising his voice, but he didn't care. How dare he?

     "Viggo, please. It is so much more than that. It is… well, it's fate. It's a beautiful thing, destiny. I know it must happen, and that it will happen, and I feel a great honour as part of such an eternal whole. You and I, we are pieces in a puzzle that spans the centuries and defies all earthly logic. It's… it's not about making sense, it's about instinct. It's about knowing your love by touch, by feel…"

     Viggo sucked in a sharp breath, for he had heard such words before. He had had such love before, even, and that love had been cruelly ripped away from him already. After all, if Harry's ancestors could have their peace in heaven, why couldn't he and David? Viggo felt as if he was a piece, all right, but a piece in the wrong puzzle altogether.

     Later that night, as he tossed and turned in bed, he replayed the story in his mind, but never with any satisfying conclusion. It was up to him, surely, to assure that this prophecy come true, and he could easily take Harry up on his offer and return to Montpellier in the morning, leave the country as quickly as he had come, but what then? He was curious, he had to admit, and a strange instinct told him to stay. That night, he dreamed of David, as he often did, but a single word was on his dead lover's lips. "Reste." Even David, who had never spoken French in his life, was commanding Viggo to stay in his dreams, and who was he to say no to that?


	5. Un Cadeau du Roi (5/8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some more development of Harry's story and the Vig/Harry relationship in this part. I should mention that this chapter was heavily inspired by my own studies on and travels in Southern France, particularly the Languedoc, a region near and dear to my heart. The amazing house described in this chapter is a real place, though it is owned not by Harry but by an older couple who happen to be friends of my advisor and allowed a small group of us to dine with them last year. I was absolutely taken by the history in the home, owned by a very modest country family, and I hope I was able to convey that feeling here. Also, if anyone's wondering, the photo in the banner is from the Pont du Gar, the aqueduct where Vig and Harry have lunch. It's a lovely place and you should definitely consider a picnic there next time you're in the neighbourhood of Avignon.

     The next morning, Viggo rose early. The guest room Harry had allowed him was luxurious, the mattress new and comfortable but the bed frame much older, clothed in heavy wine-coloured velvet drapes. There was a fireplace opposite the foot of the bed, and a wooden writing desk against one wall. Viggo found himself wondering how much of the mansion existed as it was in the sixteenth century, and how much had been changed by intermediate owners when the Sinclair family had left over two hundred years before.

     History, after all, was what he was after, Viggo reasoned. His own involvement aside, Harry's was a fascinating story, and that was what he had been promised. The best way to avoid getting wrapped up in the prophecy itself was to focus on his writing, on the historical elements that Harry described so compellingly. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the story of Billy and Dominic, and even his chase for Orlando, personally significant though it was, were simply peripheral to the majesty and mystery that made up Harry's tale. If he really wanted to write a book that would sell, this was what he needed to focus on.

     Although, if he really thought about it, it was more than a little odd. Sure, Harry had personal motivation to keep Viggo in the palace. Now that he had heard the whole story, he knew what the motivation was. He wasn't sure if he thought Harry mad, or how much he believed—it was after all a little spooky to think that this man might actually have had a vision of Viggo seven years before, but then there was Elijah, and after that encounter he found himself a little more open to the paranormal. Either way, he could see that Harry didn't want to let him get away, but why divulge so much? He said that the prophecy was a secret, and yet he was telling Viggo the story… maybe it didn't matter much, now that his line had reached an end, maybe secrecy was no longer paramount, but surely he would object to having his story written about in such detail? Unless… well unless he trusted Viggo, and that was an unlikely thought. Why would he trust someone he knew so little about? Though he seemed to know more than he let on…

     "Breakfast?"

     Viggo jumped, then took in a deep breath when he saw Harry standing behind him in the kitchen, looking amused. Viggo ran a hand through his hair and managed a weak smile. "You're up early."

     "Usually am. What can I interest you in? Toast, bacon? I make a mean eggs Benedict."

     "Tea and toast is fine," Viggo mumbled.

     "A simple man, then. I suppose it shan't fall to me to woo you with fineries after all," Harry commented with a small, knowing smile, as if he had just recited the punch line to a private joke.

     "Excuse me?"

     "Oh, just something between Orlando and I. Never you mind," Harry said dismissively, putting the kettle on and sliding slices of white bread in the toaster.

     "I… if you know so much about Orlando, why can't you lead me to him?" Viggo asked, sceptically. "If you're destined to fall in love with me, as you say, then it shouldn't be a problem to just introduce us. Unless, of course, you're jealous…?" Viggo allowed himself a small smile, thinking he had caught the man in a vulnerable position, but Harry just laughed and leaned back against the counter.

     "Hardly. First of all, I haven't the slightest idea how to contact the young Orlando right now, unless it were through Elijah, and I doubt Elijah would be exactly helpful at this stage. Secondly, Orlando has every right to be quite annoyed with me right now. And thirdly, if anyone should be jealous… well, Viggo, you might consider Orlando's and my history. After all, he is the one trying so desperately to keep you away from me, hoping to prove this prophecy wrong. I hardly suspect that he will have much of an eye for you if we three are to come together."

     Viggo just grunted, annoyed by Harry's smug demeanour, and stewed in silence until his breakfast was ready.

     "Seriously though, Viggo," Harry continued when they were sitting on opposite sides of a low wooden breakfast table. "You have your book to write, do you not? I have promised you my history, and surely you have more questions." Viggo nodded and took a sip of his tea, blowing first to cool it. "Right then. I have a proposal. This place gets so stuffy, after a while. Why don't you take your camera and your recording equipment and come with me on a drive? I promise you'll enjoy it."

     "Where do you want to take me?" Viggo asked, sceptical. After all, if this man was a psycho or a murderer, he didn't really want to get in a vehicle with him.

     "Relax," Harry replied with a gentle smile. "It isn't far, only to Sauve, in the Cevennes. It's a lovely little town, and the mountains are beautiful. The air is fresher up there, and I think it would be a nice change of pace. Just come for the day, we'll have lunch at a house I keep and then I'll show you around the town. We'll talk on the way and I'll tell you everything you want to know about my family. You have my word," Harry promised, and Viggo found that his eyes, at least, appeared genuine. He nodded, curtly, and finished his toast.

     "I'll go get my things."

 

     "So what about how you came to France. You weren't very specific about that last night, nor about what you did in the ten years before you came, in New Zealand. You said you didn't work…?"

     "That's correct," Harry replied, steering the Renault along the motorway just north of Montepellier, up out of the wine country and into the mountains. The view was breathtaking, but Viggo concentrated only on his subject and the controls of the recorder he had pointed at the driver's seat. "I spent ten years deeply engaged, but not working. I did some volunteer work for UNICEF, and I taught English lessons to some local Maori children, but I didn't work as such. The majority of my time, rather, was spent studying. Don't misunderstand me, Viggo; I do realize how lucky I am. I recognize the advantages that I have been given, and I do my best not to waste away the time I have. I went to university in Auckland, where I studied history with a specialization in sixteenth century France," Harry continued with an ironic smile.

     "My family's legacy, of course, was most important to me, but I wanted to develop a context. After the university I continued to learn of France at the time, along with what I could of the Sinclairs in England. I studied both modern French and older forms, as well as the langue d'oc, which was not spoken by my family but is still used by some in this region. My studies ended up branching into other areas as well, and as I have always been taken with art and music, I made it my goal to familiarize myself as much as possible with the arts. I have quite a collection, in fact, which I would be happy to show you if you so desire. Some of it remains with my family in New Zealand, but I have a number of paintings at the house here." Viggo smiled at Harry's identification of the mansion he lived in as "the house," but nodded simply. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was indeed quite curious to see what sort of paintings Harry owned, as he always had an appreciation of the medium himself.

     "You may assume that I remained in New Zealand for the entirety of this ten year period, but you would be incorrect. The notes, after all, said nothing of remaining in the foreign land to which I was born. I knew that I was not to return to my home until my thirtieth birthday, but I had no reason not to see Europe. Those were some of the happiest years of my life, in fact… I loved the ballet and the opera, and especially the great symphonies. I spent time in Paris and London, as well as Spain, Italy… I was quite saddened by what I had learned of the Soviet Empire, for much of the majesty of Imperial Russia was hidden away or destroyed, but I obtained a pass to visit St. Petersburg, as well, and still discovered some treasures. The Ballet Russe, of course, was amazing, and it was there I travelled until it came time to make the arrangements for the move to France.

     "Establishment in a new home, incidentally, did not diminish my love of exploration, and I continued to travel quite a bit. I admit that a somewhat boyish curiosity stayed with me, and I did pursue several affairs, though none lasting, hoping to find the man for whom it was my destiny to search." Harry paused, giving Viggo a significant look, but Viggo hoped to move the conversation in a different direction.

     "This is how you found Orlando?"

     "Ah, yes." Henry smiled fondly, conjuring a memory. "It was in Italy where I found the young Orlando Bloom, much as you did. At the time, of course, he was younger, retaining even more elements of boyhood than he does today, but still I was moved. He had just moved to the Continent from Canterbury, and at first he rejected my advances, keeping me on the edge of my seat, so to speak, hoping for more than a chance encounter. It is somewhat ironic, however, that I soon became the pursued and he, the pursuer.

     "We did in fact start an affair, and were together for several months when my fortieth birthday was upon us. I fell asleep in his arms, fully expecting to see him in my dreams, and awoke, refreshed, invigorated, but thinking only of you. He was confused and upset, as is to be expected, when I confided in him. However, once his anger subsided, and after repeated attempts to convince me to ignore the inevitable, he agreed to help me find you. I should have known, of course, that his motivations were not entirely pure, but I was blinded, by… well, by something which I to this day cannot name."

     "Love?" Viggo suggested.

     "No, not love. Or perhaps love, but not in the way you are thinking. A deep friendship, rather, for I do love Orlando as one of my dearest friends, though it pains me to think how he deliberately tried to put a stop to my life's search. Still, he did so with the best of intentions. Orlando is a free spirit, as you may have guessed, and it is good for us not to be confined together, but I hope to see him again soon." Harry smiled, and then Viggo realised that they were slowing down, ascending up a narrow gravel drive. They had been driving through a spectacular mountain range for some time, and then turned onto a side road from the motorway, and were now pulling up to a rather large house. Viggo turned off the tape recorder when he realised they had reached their destination, and stepped out of the car to be met with a slight chill.

     "Mountain air," Henry commented with a knowing smile. "I asked Lucille to turn the heat on inside before we left; it should be warm by now in the dining room."

     Viggo just nodded dumbly as Henry led the way to the front door, opening it onto a spacious foyer. The ceiling was quite high, and the walls were painted a brilliant blue, with a fresco painted on the ceiling depicting angels and cupids. Viggo stared over his head, incredulous, as Harry watched, smiling knowingly.

     "This place is a gem. It's been in the family for years, through a line founded by one of the younger brothers of an ancestor of mine in the seventeenth century. It's so well hidden in the mountains that they didn't have to leave after the Revolution, and when the line ended ownership somehow was passed on to my grandfather." Harry led the way into a room at the right, pointing out the various features as Viggo stared openly.

     "Each part of the house was built in a different period. The oldest rooms date to the eleventh century, but this would have been built around the eighteenth, before the second floor was added. You see the rooms through there," he added, pointing to a couple of rooms with a stone floor. "Those are where the servants would have slept, and here on this hearth is where they made cheeses." Harry pointed out a garden off to the side of the servant's quarters, and then led the way back into the foyer.

     "The upstairs is very spacious, but hardly interesting from a historical point of view, as it was added in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This cabinet here does hold some items worthy of note, however," he pointed out, showing a wood-and-glass cabinet hidden in a corner of the foyer. "This rifle collection includes some examples from the revolution, and those at the bottom are local silkworms. The region, as you may know, is ideal for silk, along with the better known wine and cheeses." Harry smiled and opened a door opposite the foyer from the servant's quarters, and Viggo stepped into a living area.

     "This bit at the front is relatively new, but if you'll follow me you'll see some of the older rooms." Harry led the way back to another room with a stone floor, similar to that of the servant's quarters, also slightly elevated. A long wooden table sat in the centre, with a large stone fireplace on one wall. There was also a large basin with a hose, sitting next to a quite modern refrigerator. "Ah good, I see Lucille's put the sausages on," Harry commented, nodding at the fire. "We'll have a rather rustic country lunch, but I think you'll enjoy it. First though, the piece de resistance," he announced with a smile, leading the way to a door at the back of the room. Much lower than any other doorway in the house, it was arched and sunken in, with a wood panelled door and a rusted latch. The door itself was rough and quite old looking, but Viggo had little reason to examine it when he had reached the other side.

     The four rooms, joined by a narrow corridor, were unremarkable, but Viggo immediately recognized the import of the discovery, running his hand over the stone walls in awe. "Limestone," Harry commented, watching as Viggo walked through the empty rooms, arched stone doorways devoid of actual doors. "There are a number of quarries around here, in fact most of the hills of the Languedoc are made principally of limestone."

     "But this must be… hundreds of…"

     "This is the eleventh-century portion I told you about. The oldest part of the house, hardly functional now, and it always struck me as odd the way the rest is just built up around it in wood and plaster, but it's been one of my favourite places to go since I came to France," Harry admitted. "It's comforting, you know? To think that despite the incredible weight of this legacy I'm a part of, despite the import of the fact that I am the last of a royal line stretching back five hundred years, that there is still something older than me. People lived in these rooms, cooked their suppers on these floors…" Harry paused, scuffing the blackened centre of floor in the room they stood in with the toe of his boot. "… people had daily lives here long before my family ever existed, and people will continue to live their lives long after I am gone. It makes it a little easier to handle," Harry admitted, and his soft smile was endearing whether Viggo wanted to admit it or not. Whether he believed Harry was beside the point, for Viggo had a nagging feeling that Harry was right. This wasn't about him, or Harry, or the two of them. This was about an amazing history, not just Henry's own legacy but the history of a region that spanned far back in the stretches of time, beyond their own imaginations. Viggo smiled, and clasped one hand around Harry's strong shoulder, squeezing gently. Words weren't necessary.

     "Well then! Why don't you choose a wine?" Harry suggested after a minute had passed, and Viggo stepped back quickly, urging himself to snap back into the present. He blamed it entirely on the room, and once he had picked a bottle of red from the wooden rack along one wall, he quickly headed back towards the kitchen.

     Throughout the meal, Harry kept the conversation light, and Viggo was glad for that. He told him about the Languedoc, a topic on which Harry proved to be quite an expert—from the shepherds of the Cevennes to the vineyards of the lower plains, it was all quite fascinating, and Viggo took comfort in knowledge as he often had in difficult situations. He always liked to know as much as he could, as information could serve both as a tool and as a barrier to hide behind, in Viggo's own experience. Here it kept him from questioning the more confusing parts of this journey he found himself in, and he took immense comfort in learning about wine and silk and limestone, rather than considering his own role in a story that was far beyond his immediate comprehension.

     Between the two of them, Viggo and Harry made quite a dent in the sausages and rustic local bread that Lucille, the caretaker, had laid out for them. The wine, a very good vintage, led to companionable conversation as well, followed by tiny crystal goblets of kir and kiwis for dessert. Harry told fond stories of the kiwi fruit that had grown in his own backyard in New Zealand, and Viggo confessed that he had always wanted to see the country, but had never been to the South Pacific in his journalistic career. They laughed about how the French scooped out halved kiwis with a spoon, while the Americans cut the fruit into thin slices. Viggo found talking about their dessert to be perhaps the safest topic it was possible to hit upon, and so he indulged Harry as he talked about the kiwi fruit, and then the kiwi bird, and finally New Zealand itself, in great length. By the time they finished, like true Frenchmen, it was two o' clock, and they had spent nearly two hours on their lunch.

     Viggo was sorry to see the charming house go, but was soon treated to a new enjoyment when they reached the village of Sauve. Cobblestone streets and narrow houses that went up, rather than out, marked the charming little town, where a car often could traverse a street with less than a hand's width leeway on either side. With the exception of a few old women sitting on their rooftop terraces, the village was surprisingly empty, and Harry explained that many this time of year were on holiday in Nice or Marseilles, or at least taking a beach weekend at the closer Palavas.

     They passed the Protestant and Catholic churches with their two separate squares, and Harry explained with a chuckle how the older men would congregate here on Saturday mornings, each group completely ignorant of the other. Religious divisions still ran deep in this area, one of the strongholds of the Huguenots and last to surrender, even earlier, to the reign of Catholic France when the Languedoc had remained independent in medieval times. Harry explained how the death of his own ancestor, Henry III, had been one effect of a bloody rift between Catholics and Protestants. Henry of Navarre, his successor, was a Protestant, while Henry III had been responsible for revoking the Edict of Nantes, a law that granted some religious freedoms to Protestants. Though the notes Harry possessed suggested Henry's own personal involvement had been scant, rather led by the advice of the Catholic Duke of Guise to revoke the Edict, the populous was not amused and religion had been the cause of Henry's death nonetheless.

     As Harry told the story, the two men wound up through narrow alleys, their path rising progressively as Harry pointed out certain elements—the walls of the old city, the old horse paths, a fenced-in field backed by rock outcroppings where the precious hickory trees grew, native to the region and used to make pitchforks for farmers throughout the world. Viggo rolled his eyes a bit at something as insignificant as pitchfork production being considered an important historical detail, but then remembered the description of the twin boxes bearing the notes and the prophecy. Both, he recalled, were made of hickory.

     By the time half an hour had passed, they were well out of the confines of the town, rising on a dirt path up into the hills, ducking overhanging branches and occasionally hopping over narrow gullies. Harry held out his hand to help Viggo at one point, and Viggo accepted the leg-up as he was hoisted onto a stone shelf, overlooking the whole of the town from the hill's summit.

     From this vantage point, Harry methodically pointed out the layout of the town, including the two churches and their opposing squares, but they did not dally long. Their destination, in fact, was much more out of the way and could only be found by a trained eye, but Harry knew what he was looking for.

     Partially obscured by overgrowth, the entrance to the stone cave was really nothing but a hole in the ground. Viggo stooped in front of the hole, imagining a full-grown man trying to squeeze through, but reasoned that people were obvious smaller in those days. Harry helpfully held a lighter to the entrance, and Viggo could just make out a tunnel, opening into a wider stone room.

     "This is where the Protestants hid," Harry explained. "In those times, after the Edict was revoked, devout Catholics and men with less pure motives were eager to scour the countryside, looking for heretics. Some succeeded, and many were put to death, but a few managed to survive up here, in hiding in the hills. I think, remembering this history, this is why the Protestant men now are still so reluctant to make peace with the Catholics. The stories were passed down, generation to generation, of how whole families were forced either to flee to the Netherlands or make their homes in these dank holes, barely subsisting, just to avoid capture. It's a pretty bleak story, you can imagine." Viggo nodded, taking one last look at the hole, and remained relatively silent on the hike back down to the car.

     "So that was the Mer de Roches," Harry commented when they were back in the car, driving up over the mountains again back towards Montpellier. "Pretty amazing, huh?"

     "Yeah," Viggo agreed absentmindedly, looking out the open window as they climbed higher and higher. He looked out over the landscapes, at the scrubby grape vines and the chalky limestone outcroppings, the roadside almost as dusty as the southwestern desert back at home, and his mind was far away. He remembered the trip to the Painted Desert, and on to Mesa Verde, Dave's cowboy hat ridiculous atop his perfectly gelled red-blonde locks. He was back in that old Ford truck, rumbling down a dusty highway with his lover in the passenger seat, laughing as the other man warbled old country and western tunes in an off-key tenor tinged with an Australian accent, reaching out with his own dirt-stained hand to cut him off. He was lying under the stars, underneath a canvas tent, coyotes and the scrubby brush that surrounded their makeshift campsite the only witness to his fervent cry, his lover moving over him in perfect counterpoint to his own thrusts as drops of sweat fell and were caught between his lips. When Harry gently asked if he had more questions, he shook his head. All the answers, he feared, had been lost long ago.

 

     On his third day in France, Harry decided to take Viggo on another drive, this time out of the Languedoc. Their first stop was in a town called Uzes, where Viggo took some photos of the Roman Aqueduct that cuts through Provence on its way to Montpellier. The town's market was bustling that morning, and Viggo took advantage of the busy booths to purchase a jar of locally made lavender honey and some candied fruit while Harry obtained bread and cheese for their lunch.

     After Uzes, they proceeded eastward to their final destination, the Pont du Gar. Predictably, there was a good-sized swarm of tourists on the walkway underneath the aqueduct, but Harry led the way down a lesser-known trail that twisted down to the river's edge, giving them a view of the aqueduct from its bank and a perfect spot to sit and enjoy their lunch.

     The day was sunny but not hot, and Viggo quite enjoyed their somewhat rustic meal of country bread, local cheese, and a hearty red wine. Tearing off a hunk of bread with his teeth as Harry watched, laughing, Viggo smiled and thought back to earlier days.

     "I used to love to go camping," he admitted, seemingly out of the blue, as Harry passed him the bottle of wine to sip from. "When I was a boy, my dad would take me… and then Dave and I loved to go when we were on holiday."

     "Dave was your boyfriend?" Harry asked.

     "Yeah. We worked at the same paper… he was a phenomenal journalist, joined us from Sydney just a couple of years after I started and it was pretty much instant attraction. Well…almost instant." Viggo chuckled at the memory of Dave's first day, when he was in such a rush to get to a location that he didn't even see the Australian rounding the corner and smacked into him, head-on. It was a week before Dave had officially forgiven him for that one, and a month before he finally let him live the klutzy moment down. Oh, but what Viggo would give for a thousand more klutzy moments… "Well anyway, we dated for quite a few years," Viggo finished, his smile fading.

     "What happened to him?" Harry asked in a gentle tone.

     "He died." Viggo's voice was matter-of-fact; belying the pain he still felt when he said the words aloud. "On assignment in Kosovo, it… went bad."

     "Oh. I'm sorry," Harry replied, and he seemed genuine enough, but Viggo couldn't help but wonder. Why would Harry be sorry, after all? It was hard to fall in love with a man who was already in love with someone else, and he wouldn't get his goddamned prophecy and the supposed prize if Dave were still here. Viggo turned away; not wanting to see Harry's sympathetic eyes, and took a long swallow of wine.

     "What's past is past," he mumbled, not meaning it. Harry, to his credit, respected Viggo's imposed silence and didn't pry; wrapping up the remains of their lunch and leading the way back to the car when they had finished.

     "Where to now, then?" Viggo asked when they were back on the motorway heading north. "Any more romantic getaway destinations in your plan to force yourself to fall in love with me?" he continued in a bitter tone. Harry looked a bit taken aback, but gave himself a moment to comment, choosing his words carefully with his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

     "Viggo, I'm not trying to force you to do anything," Harry insisted, his tone soft. "I've waited years, and I can wait longer…"

     "Until what, Harry?" Viggo yelled, his tone unusually harsh. "You're not giving me any choice in the matter, whatsoever! You say you have to fall in love with me, and presumably for this to occur you'll need to spend time with me, and I don't know how much time, but I don't want to be a pawn in your stupid little historical game! I can't just traipse all over France with you, trying to make myself attractive so that you'll fall for me and your destiny will be fulfilled. I have my own life, you know."

     Harry sighed, his focus still on the road, unwilling to meet the hurt expression in Viggo's eyes. "It isn't like that," he whispered, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "It isn't like that at all, Viggo. You know, you act like I've never loved before. You act as if I don't know what it's like to love, and lose. Well you're fucking wrong, mate. Just because I knew I was destined for you, does not mean I haven't given away my heart, hoping against hope that I might have found the right person… I mean Jesus, Viggo. I'm just like any other man, any man searching for the one he's destined to be with. It just happens that with me, well, I found out the identity of that man before I ever met him. But don't think I wasn't looking, long before that. Don't think I wasn't pretty fucking sure that Orlando was that man, and don't think that he wasn't ready… isn't still ready, even, to give his heart to me. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know what it's like to look into those beautiful brown eyes and say 'I'm sorry, but you're not the one?'

     Harry took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, or willing unshed tears not to fall. "You don't know the half of it, Viggo. What's so great about you, you know? I'm supposed to fall in love with you, but damn it, I have no idea why you're so much better than Orlando, or any of the other men I've been with and enjoyed and hoped… Viggo, you have no idea. I'm not asking you to 'make' yourself attractive to me, I'm just asking you the courtesy of being yourself, trying to enjoy yourself with me, and remaining open to the possibility. Tell me something, honestly. Let's say there was no Orlando, no book, no prophecy… let's say you just met me on the street, or through a friend, or at a party. Can you honestly say you wouldn't be interested at all, not the teeniest bit?"

     Harry held his breath, and Viggo sighed, rubbing his temples. He almost could feel sorry for the man, if he didn't feel so… used. Primarily, Viggo was confused, and he didn't want to do this, not here, in a car on some French motorway with a sudden summer rainstorm pouring down on the windscreen. He took a deep breath, and braced himself. "No, I can't say that," he answered, quietly, and Harry would have smiled if the situation hadn't been as it was. "But it's not like that, Harry… I feel for you, really I do, but I can't help but feel like a caged animal here."

     Harry nodded. "I can see how you would feel like that, but you have every right to go, if you want to. I told you before that I would take you to the train in the morning and I wasn't lying. You want to go back right now, get your stuff, and head to Montpellier? We can."

     Viggo sighed again, ran a hand through his hair. "You know I can't do that. I'm too… involved, now. I can't help but want to know how it's all going to turn out."

     Harry smiled slightly and nodded to himself. "Right then. We'll head back, have a nice hot cup of tea, and take it from there. Sound good?"

     Viggo nodded, and allowed himself a small smile. "Sounds excellent."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters and the epliogue to go, dear readers. Herein lies extraneous fluff. Be warned ;-)

     After Viggo's outburst on the last outing, Harry didn't plan any more impromptu trips for the two of them. And it was just as well, as the rain didn't let up the next day, or the day after that. The storms was quite intense, and Viggo didn't want to admit that the rattling of the windowpanes made him just a tinny bit nervous. Harry joked that Viggo was lucky he hadn't come in spring, when the Mistral would be blowing, but despite his teasing Viggo was touched when one late night during a particularly loud series of thunderclaps Harry brought him a blanket and a cup of tea downstairs, lighting a fire and then returning to his room to let Viggo weather the storm in peace.

      On the third day after Uzes, Viggo came downstairs a bit after lunch and found Harry sitting on a leather sofa in the library, thumbing through a well-worn history that seemed ready to fall apart in his hands. He smiled at the frown of concentration on Harry's face, noting his slight squint at the old French words, and casually lowered himself onto the sofa's arm.

     "You might want to get some glasses soon, old man," Viggo joked, and Harry laughed loudly, marking his place with a length of green ribbon and setting the volume down next to him.

     "Not like you aren't right behind me, mate," Harry replied with a smile, and Viggo just smiled back, pointing over his head in the vague direction of his guest room.

     "Got a pair up in my bag." Harry smiled and Viggo was struck by how handsome the man really was, despite his habit of being a royal pain-in-the-arse when he was busy philosophizing on prophecies and family legacies. The warm glow of a desk lamp softened his features, but the strong jaw and high cheekbones were still defined, his skin a particularly alluring shade in the light and his eyes a warmer, more inviting brown. Viggo's smile faded slightly, as it would do his resolve little good to start admiring this near-stranger. He chalked it up to the proximity, and the storm, and the fact that he hadn't so much as glanced at another man this way since Dave died. He had read, in fact, that the Napoleonic Code actually excused "crimes of passion" committed during a Mistral that blew in excess of three days, due to the close quarters in which citizens of the Midi were often living, and he couldn't blame them. Shaking his head to clear it of any unseemly thoughts, Viggo reminded himself of what he had come down here to do.

     "Harry, I owe you an apology," he admitted. "This whole thing isn't your fault, and I guess it's not so bad, really. I mean, say you do fall in love with me, it isn't half bad to have someone who loves you, and you never know, I might grow to love you in return. Maybe." He offered a weak smile at this thought, and was surprised when Harry's smile in return was no stronger, almost sad. "Well anyway… I am sorry about Orlando, and maybe chasing him wasn't worth it after all. I mean, you're probably right. It seems he only wants you anyway, and it would be fruitless to interfere…" At this, Harry did smile, and stood suddenly, clapping a hand down on Viggo's shoulder.

     "Come. I want to show you something."

     Viggo followed, dumbfounded, as Harry led him up the stairs, past the guest bedrooms and his own master suite, to a closed door at the end of the hall. Grinning broadly, Harry gestured for Viggo to go in front of him, but reached up when Viggo took hold of the doorknob and settled his own broad hand across Viggo's eyes. "Trust me," Harry whispered, and though Viggo had little reason to at this juncture, he found he did trust Harry, at least a little, and allowed the other man to lead him with his free hand gentle but firm on Viggo's lower back. He heard the flip of a switch, and registered light beyond Harry's hand, but waited dutifully until the hand was removed to open his eyes.

     Blinking, Viggo looked around the room he stood at the centre of, and gasped. He barely registered Harry's fond smile as he spun around slowly in place, taking in the amazing collection of art on the walls, and then reverently approached one wall, inspecting what appeared to be original Monets, Renoirs, Manets, Lautrecs….

     "This is amazing," he finally spoke in a reverent half-whisper, and Harry just grinned, coming up behind him as he examined a particularly lovely Boucher. "Harry, these… they must date back to…"

     "The Renaissance, a few of them. There are many more in New Zealand, but I enjoy this collection quite a bit. Seeing it through your eyes only reminds me of how much…" he added, trailing back as he allowed Viggo to observe each work in turn.

     "But you've never considered selling them, or donating?"

     "I have no desire to," Harry replied simply. "These here, especially, I love personally. Certainly, after I die, they will go to museums, but why not be allowed to enjoy them while they're here? I keep this room temperature-controlled, no harsh lighting… they'll be as well preserved here as in any museum."

     "I guess…" Viggo paused in his exploration to turn and look at Harry. "I had a Manet, once. It was David's grandmother's; she left it to him when she died…"

     "And he left it to you?"

     "No. No, he gave it to me for a present, and I loved it dearly, but… after he died, I couldn't look at it again. I donated to the Met; I'm sure they appreciate it more than I."

     Harry nodded, placing a cautious hand on Viggo's shoulder and squeezing gently. "It's hard to have reminders of someone you loved."

     Viggo just nodded, leaning unconsciously into the touch as he pretended to admire the art, tears pricking at his eyes.

     "Did you… keep anything, of his?" Harry asked gently.

     Viggo shook his head. "I couldn't, not at the time… it was just too much. I might go someday, to Australia, see his family, but…"

     "Wound's too fresh?"

     "Probably always will be, honestly. The places he grew up, the people he knew before me… I don't think it's my place," Viggo admitted.

     "He never took you there?"

     "No, like I said, I've never been to the South Pacific."

     "You'd like to go?" Harry asked, his tone gentle.

     "Maybe, but not to his hometown. I couldn't handle it."

     "You should try New Zealand. I think you'd like it, even if I'm biased," Harry suggested with a shrug, and Viggo smiled.

     "I probably would."

 

     An hour later, once Harry had excused himself to get back to his reading, and Viggo had done enough looking at the art for an afternoon, Viggo returned to his bedroom. He glanced at his duffle bag, and sighed. There, in the little hidden inner pocket, where he had left it all these years. Yes, it was still there; where could it have gone? But he hadn't taken it out since… well, since it happened.

     _"Here, I want you to take it with you, you know. As protection."_

_     "Protection from what?" Viggo asked, turning the photo over in his hand and reading the inscription on the back as his boyfriend watched him with his usual soft, shy smile. 'To Vig, Love Dave. May we be together in our hearts, wherever life may take us.'_

_     "I don't know, the oogledy-boogledies under foreign beds. Come on, just put it in your bag. It'll make me feel better." _

_     Viggo smiled, and cupped his hand around the back of Dave's neck, drawing him in for a long, searching kiss. "I'll keep it on me," he promised when he finally pulled away, breathless. _

_     "You do that," Dave replied with a grin. That grin, Viggo had always said, even to his aunt once in loosely translated Danish, could cause train wrecks. That grin could make the Pope fall in love._

     Viggo smiled at the memory, his fingers tracing the well-worn edges of the little 3 x 5 piece of glossy paper, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the words at the back that he didn't have the courage to read once again. For the first few weeks, even seeing Dave's familiar loopy handwriting had sent him into shock and produced seizure-like fits. In an act that Viggo could never be grateful enough for, Sean paid for a hotel room, only stopping in occasionally to make sure Viggo didn't drink himself to death, while he personally went through the whole apartment and removed all traces of his friend's dead lover.

     After those weeks, after the living hell that was those weeks in a hotel room, Viggo never cried. He had never cried for David, not in years, but here on his knees, surrounded by plush carpeting and antique furniture, he let the salty drops begin to fall.

     "Jesus, Dave. What the fuck am I going to do about this?" Viggo whispered, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. Not surprisingly, he found no answers there. Not tonight.

 

     "Hey Viggo."

     "Yeah?" Viggo looked up from his book; it was ten 'o clock at night and he had been here two weeks. In terms of work, it wasn't really justifiable. He should be leaving France, moving on, finding someone else to interview. But the house was comfortable, and Harry was a kind host. Curiosity motivated him still, but also a since of belonging. He hadn't felt that way in a long time.

     "You ever listen to jazz?"

     Viggo blinked, objectively followed Harry's form with his eyes as he crossed the room to an old record player, pulling a large black disc from its sleeve as Viggo watched. "Um, yeah, used to from time to time," he finally answered as the machine crackled to life and Miles Davis flooded the room.

     "Dance with me," Harry commanded simply, a soft smile on his face. Viggo looked up, blinked again. Harry was leaning against the cabinet that held the record player with one hand, and there was a comfortable ease about his body that Viggo hadn't noticed before. He had seen Harry act almost nervous around him, anticipatory, desirous. But he had never noticed him acting so _casual_.

     "Sure." The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but Harry just smiled wider and crossed the room again, lifting the book from Viggo's hands and setting it place-down on the coffee table. He extended a hand and Viggo took it, silently, gulping as he found himself pulled into a dancing position for the first time in as long as he could remember. It certainly _was_ the first time he could remember _following_, and he laughed softly at the thought.

     "Something funny?" Harry murmured, smiling as his hand firmly guided Viggo by the lower back, almost as it had been that day he had first shown off his paintings.

     "Just… I don't think I've ever been the girl," Viggo admitted, smiling sheepishly and then ducking his head to rest on Harry's shoulder to hide his blush. Harry laughed and pulled him slightly closer than standard ballroom position, and Viggo tried not to think too hard about just how comfortable this position was.

     "You can lead if you like," Harry suggested, breathily, and Viggo got the feeling he wasn't talking about dancing.

     "I used to," Viggo whispered by way of reply, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.

     "Lead?" Harry questioned gently.

     "All the time."

     "And now?"

     "I'm content to follow," Viggo admitted, his posture relaxing a bit, letting Harry guide him in small circles around the room. They danced for several minutes in silence, drifting closer, until Harry's arm was fully around Viggo's waist, his shoulder resting underneath Viggo's armpit, and their clasped hands slid apart naturally, coming to wrap around each other's bodies so that they were simply swaying in a comfortable embrace, almost like overgrown secondary schoolers at a dance.

     "Vig, I…"

     "Shhh," Viggo cautioned, pulling back a fraction of an inch and touching the pad of his finger to Harry's lips. "Please. I'm happy." His admission took some effort, but Harry just nodded in response, unsmiling, his gaze intense. "Let me be happy," he requested, and Harry didn't deny him that, pulling him close again and reaching up to stroke Viggo's hair when he felt choking sobs against his shoulder.

     "We are all shaped by our past," Harry whispered, after what seemed to Viggo like an eternity of silence. "It is what we choose to make of the future that shapes us as men," he continued, and Viggo felt oddly comforted by the words. He simply sighed as Harry pulled back, lifting his tearstained face with a finger under Viggo's chin, urging the other man to look into his eyes. "You are a beautiful man," Harry stated, and for a long moment Viggo felt an urge to kiss him. But he let the disappointment slide over him, familiar, when Harry leaned in and brushed his lips over Viggo's cheekbone. "Go up to sleep, love. I'll be here in the morning." And Harry would, Viggo realised. It seemed so simple, but yet was difficult to grasp. Harry would be there in the morning, and Dave would not. And suddenly, Viggo was okay with that.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of your questions will be answered in this part. There is still one more chapter and an epilogue to come, but they will have to wait a week b/c I will be on holiday in the South of France. So thank you for your patience and as always for your comments!

      When Viggo came down to the kitchen in the morning, he met Harry with an easy smile before buttering his toast and putting water on the hob for the tea. He was more relaxed than he'd been in months, maybe even years, but after a few minutes he realised that Harry was not acting in kind.

      "What's wrong, sunshine?" Viggo asked jokingly, stepping around the island to slide his arms around Harry's waist, and feeling a tinge of worry when Harry's eyes slid immediately down to a point just to the left of Viggo's elbow.

      "Orlando is on his way, Vig." Viggo frowned, but didn't pull away, putting the pieces slowly together in his head.

      "So… oh God, Harry. You're worried that I'll leave with him, aren't you? Are you worried that I'll leave here? Please, don't be. I know I don't exactly _love_ you yet, but last night…"

      "Viggo, it's not what you think…"

      Harry and Viggo both jumped at the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway, and Harry quickly jerked away, as if he had touched a hot stove. Viggo frowned, the wheels turning in his head as the front door flew open and Orlando stalked into the kitchen. Viggo would've smiled at the irony, seeing Orlando up close for the first time when he had just reconciled himself to the fact that Harry might actually be the preferable partner, if it weren't for the pained look on Harry's face.

      "I'll be damned," Orlando announced, followed by a low whistle. He looked from Viggo, standing by the counter looking frightened, to Harry, head now in his hands, leaning against the refrigerator, and chuckled, almost cruelly. "You know, I was hoping to get here before it was too late, but I guess not. It's happened then, Harry? You've told him?"

      "Orli, it's not…"

      "Told me what?" Viggo's voice was sharp as a knife cutting through a steak, and Harry cringed while Orlando's eyes just widened.

      "Wait a minute. You know, don't you? About the prophecy?" Orlando asked, cautiously, as if he were trying to feel Viggo out.

      "Of course I do! He's supposed to fall in love with me, and then he'll get some sort of a prize! And you're jealous, I guess, and therefore tried to keep this from happening, but I think you might be too late for that," Viggo admitted, his fire suddenly focused fully on Orlando. "Honestly, was it really necessary? To think I ever desired you…"

      Orlando stared at Viggo for a moment, and then broke out into laughter—cruel, unabashed laughter. "You don't honestly think…"

      "Orlando, please. Don't." Viggo looked at Harry, and then at Orlando, and back again, trying to understand fully what was going on. "Look, Vig, please. I… I have… shit, I have fallen in love with you, God help me, but it's not that easy…"

      "Jesus, Harry. Just let me tell the poor guy," Orlando interrupted. "It's better he hates me, anyway."

      "Orli, I don't…"

      "Jesus fuck!" Viggo exclaimed suddenly, and both men whipped around to look at him. "Would someone _please_ tell me what the hell is going on here?"

      Orlando was the first to recover, and smiled almost evilly, turning to face Viggo. "Look, Viggo. Here's how it goes. He told you about the prophecy, yeah? And about he and I, how we were together…?"

      "Yes, all of that, but what…"

      "Listen to me. Now I assume he told you that all he has to do to claim his prize and reunite the spirits of his ancestors is fall in love with you, right? And you think that I tried to prevent this because I wanted him for myself?" Viggo nodded dumbly, and Orlando shook his head, laughing lightly. "Poor bastard, I almost feel sorry for you."

      "Orli, I swear to God…"

      "Shut up, Harry. I'm trying to make this easy on you. Listen, Viggo. Long story short, that's not all of the prophecy. He doesn't just have to fall in love with you. He has to fall, and _then let you go_. That's the whole prophecy, and I suspect that's why he's dawdled so long over the letting go part. He did fall for you, and he knew it would hurt you and him, and that's why I've been trying to avoid this in the first place. I don't care if it's inevitable; I don't want Harry hurt. But now it's happened, and now you have to go, and I'm going to be here with him to pick up the pieces. I'm sorry, Viggo. You have to understand that I never meant for it to happen this way."

      Orlando finished his explanation with a sympathetic smile, but all Viggo could do was stare at him. He was completely in shock, and come to think of it, he was damned pissed off. He just couldn't decide on whom to first focus his rage.

      "You… you…. you _fucker_!" he screamed, flying into Orlando with both hands raised, shoving him into the fridge right next to Harry, who jumped and then reached out to grab Viggo by the shoulders, trying to hold him off. "Let go of me!" he snapped, pushing Harry away as well, pacing to the opposite side of the room to leave both the other men standing against the fridge, bewildered. "God, what the _fuck_? What _right_ do you have? You!" He glared at Harry, watching the other man cower but not nearly satisfied. "You _know_, you fucker!! You know how badly I was hurt, and yet you have the _audacity_ to throw it in my face, to let history repeat itself for your own stupid little game? You fucking _prick_!" he screamed, punctuating his speech with another shove against Harry's chest. "And you!" he continued, this time focusing on Orlando. "There are no words to describe what a fucking _selfish_ bastard you are! How the _fuck_ could you consider this protection? Love? You call it love to storm in here and tell me this? If you didn't want him hurt, you could've ignored the fucking prophecy! You didn't have to shove him away from me, damnit! I may not love him, no, and I sure as hell don't now, but I was at least starting to _like_ him! God! God damn you both to hell!" he cursed, storming up the steps to his room, throwing everything into his bag in a rage.

      "Viggo, look…" Harry ventured, watching his would-be-lover from the doorway.

      "Don't fucking talk to me," Viggo spat out, his tone surprisingly low and even.

      "Viggo, I don't want to do this. I do love you, and God knows I wish you could just stay…"

      "Are you asking me?" Viggo asked, suddenly standing to full height and facing Harry. "Are you asking me to stay here, telling me that you're going to fuck the prophecy to hell and kick that goddamned fucking selfish child out the door so that I can maybe learn how to love again?"

      Harry sighed, and seemed to consider a moment. "Viggo, I have to respect my ancestors. This isn't about us…"

      "Oh the fuck it isn't. I'm leaving, you ass. I'll send word so you can find your car," Viggo spat out, pushing past Harry and out the door, ignoring the simpering little smirk as he passed Orlando and swiped the car keys from a dish near the door, peeling out of the driveway in a squeal of tires and leaving the godforsaken French mansion behind forever.

 

      It was in Narbonne, where Viggo left Harry's car in the train station parking lot and found a small bed and breakfast that still had availability in early October, that Viggo thought to go through his work thus far. He wasn't sure he could ever write a book on this whole bizarre story that was Harry Sinclair, even if it would make an excellent novel, so he went back to his notes from Ireland and his aspirations of a boring coffee table volume. He was flipping through what he had written in his notebook when he suddenly found a single name, scribbled in the middle of his notes that morning at the café with Dom and Billy, when he had asked about the affair Billy had had in Connemara.

      Harry.

      Eyes wide, Viggo thought back. It couldn't be… but then there was the note at the hotel in Italy, which had to be left by _someone_. A friend. Billy? Frantically, he flipped through his things until he found a phone number, and hastily dialled.

      "Dom Monaghan speaking."

      "Dom, this is Viggo. I need to speak to Billy, please."

      "Um, sure mate… just a tic." Viggo kneaded his hands nervously in his lap as he heard muffled speech in the background. Fuck. _Billy_ was involved in all this? _Billy_ had led him to Liv? It had to be. But then, why did Billy give away the name so quickly? It was only due to his initial rage and confusion in meeting Harry that Viggo had never put two and two together, and if Billy wanted him to meet then why hadn't he…

      "Viggo?"

      "You have some explaining to do."

      "Shit. I guess you found Harry then?"

      "Of course I found him, you fucker. You led me right into his fucking lap. Why?"

      "Viggo, please. I was helping a friend… I thought you would end up falling in love with him, maybe, like the prophecy said, but I guess it didn't work out…"

      "First of all, Billy, the prophecy only required that _he_ fall in love with _me_. Secondly, it worked just fine. Which is why I'm sitting here in a fucking hotel room, trying not to go completely mental…"

      "Wait. If it worked out, then why aren't you with him? And why are you mad at me? I thought you'd be happy that I led you to him." Viggo paused for a moment, not understanding Billy's logic, and then suddenly he realised.

      "Billy," he finally spoke, tone much softer. "You don't know about the last part of the prophecy, do you?"

     "Last part? What the bloody hell…"

     "Billy, the prophecy… well he didn't tell me this at first, either. In fact, _he_ never told me, it was that fucking prick Orlando who did this morning, but…"

     "Wait, Orlando's there?"

     "Yes, but…"

     "Not with Elijah?"

     "No! Look, Billy, listen to me. The prophecy. I guess we've both been played…. you see, it says that he has to fall in love with me, and then he has to leave. For it to work, he has to leave me after falling for me. That's what Orlando came to explain. That's why he's there now, and not me…"

     "Oh, _fuck_. Fucking… _Jesus_, mate, I am so sorry…"

     "Billy…"

     "Wait. I have to explain some things to you. And then we have to figure out… fuck. Okay, look. You were right about some things. That was me, with the message at the hotel. But that's not all. You see, when you first arrived in Ireland, well, Dom and I meeting you wasn't exactly coincidence."

     "_What?_"

     "I mean, it was pretty bloody lucky that you wound up right there, on the street where we were busking, and stopped to listen. But Dom approaching you, getting you interested… Orli knew that you would be in Ireland, see. Harry had no idea, but Orlando was pretty bloody worried about this whole prophecy, and even though he and Harry hadn't been together for awhile, he was pretty fucking afraid of Harry getting hurt. He does love Harry, in a sort of obtuse, destructive way, but… well the point is, he had been keeping an eye on you. He found out that you were coming to London, and when he realised you were going to Cork…"

     "How did he…?"

     "Flight information, I don't know exactly. Anyway, he wanted us on the lookout. Orlando knew Dom, see, from a while back. Dom and Orli's sister dated when she was in Manchester, before he came to Ireland, and so Orli called in a favour when he found out where you were going. He didn't explain much to us, just that it was very important that he know your whereabouts, and that you stay in Ireland if at all possible."

     "You trusted him?"

     "Dom did. I played along. You might have noticed, Dom was somewhat more enthusiastic about the whole thing, but I warmed up to you, Viggo. And so when you left, and Harry called, I didn't know what to do. He explained the whole thing, you know, except for the part of the prophecy that you just told me. He played Orli up as the jealous ex, and told me that he just needed a bit of help getting you to France so that the pieces could fall into place. I thought he was crazy, at first, but I wanted you happy and in love, you know, and I like Harry, even if he wasn't the one for me… well anyway, Dom was completely against the idea. He didn't trust Harry, and he'd known Orli for ages, but then I pointed out that it seemed to be a question of fate. You know, I never believed in fate before, but seeing as how it was fate that brought Dommeh and I together…" Viggo smiled, hearing Billy's tone of voice over the lines.

     "Listen, Billy, I'm not upset with you. I just don't know what to do now, exactly."

     "I don't know, Viggo. This doesn't sit right with me, all of this. I think there's something we're missing… and what about Elijah?"

     "What about him?"

     "Well, you know he's pretty much in love with Orlando?"

     "Harry said as much."

     "Presumably, Orlando just up and left Elijah to run off to Harry, I mean think how he must be feeling. I was hoping with you and Harry together, that Orlando might realise what he has, honestly. Always trying to protect the kid, but…"

     "Elijah. Maybe if I see Elijah I'll find some answers."

     "I don't know, Vig. I mean, he can be kind of fragile."

     "Just give me his number, okay? I just want to ring him."

     "Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you."

 

     "He…hello?" Elijah's voice sounded as if he'd been crying for days, and Viggo's heart immediately went out to the kid.

     "Elijah, it's Viggo."

     "I know." Oh. Right. Yeah, he'd seen Elijah's powers first hand, but… still creepy.

     "Elijah, are you all right?"

     "What do you think? This isn't how it's supposed to happen!" Elijah exclaimed, and then Viggo thought he could hear sobbing start anew in the background.

     "Elijah… Elijah please, calm down. I want to help you."

     "How? Orli's gone off with Harry, and we're both alone, and this is not how it's supposed to fucking happen!!" Viggo held the phone away from his ear for a moment, as Elijah was actually screaming, and waited for a moment before responding.

     "Elijah… can you please do me a favour? Just tell me what you mean. Not supposed to happen? Are you referring to a… um, to a premonition, here?"

     "Of course I am! I don't just make this shit up!" Viggo smiled this time, in spite of himself.

     "Elijah, can you just tell me what you saw? Please?"

     "You and Harry… me and Orlando… we're supposed to be… this isn't how it's supposed to work!"

     "The prophecy's wrong, then?"

     "I don't know! I don't fucking know! I don't get it, okay?" Viggo sighed, trying to think quickly. Come on, smart one. Think of something.

     "Elijah, if this isn't supposed to happen… tell me this, at least. Harry says he loves me, and I believe him. And Orlando… you love him, right?"

     "With all my heart," Elijah replied, sniffling.

     "Right. Well then… I really think there's something going on here. I mean Harry… God, it's so strange, but now that he's gone I'm that much more determined to see him again. I mean, he was a total asshole to me, but was he really? I've been thinking about it, and maybe… it wasn't all within his control, you know? But what if it was? I mean what if I could get him back, somehow? What if the prophecy… well it said he had to let me go, okay. I grant him that. But this prize, he still doesn't know what it is, or have it, as far as I know. And I'm thinking… well what in the prophecy says that after letting me go, what says that I'm not allowed to fight back?"

     "Oh my…" Viggo grinned, almost hearing Elijah smile through the phone lines.

     "We've got to fight for these fuckers, Elijah. I don't even know why. I have no idea why I care so much. I should just let him wallow, and live without me, but… there was something in his eyes, the night before I left. God help me, I want to fight for this. And I don't think you're ready to give up on Orli, either."

      "No…"

      "I'm going back, Lijah. I'm going to find them. I'll call you, okay?"

      "Okay… Viggo?"

      "Yeah?"

      "If you do… tell Orli I love him." Viggo grinned.

      "I promise."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I do realise that there is no banner. Thing is, I figure with my prolonged absence and the way I left everyone hanging, the story itself is more important and I'm just too tired to bother right now. With any luck, a banner will be added sometime tomorrow, when I post the epilogue. Also, you should know that a long one-part prequel is coming, which I hand-wrote on a number of trains and planes this week, and a sequel (multi-chapter) is also on the way and in the outline stage currently. The moral of the story is, contribute euros to the VA European Travel Fund and more writing will follow. But anyway, it's been one hell of a ride and I thank you all for your support. Kisses to all!

     Plan A, to Viggo's extreme consternation, was a bust.

      Harry was an annoying little fucker, but Viggo couldn't help but be that more determined to find him and beat some sense into his head. From what he gathered from the caretaker that had suddenly found herself watching over Harry's home, the two men had left the estate quickly, the owner claiming that it was "too painful" to remain on the property. Viggo almost rolled his eyes, but fell quickly into the thrill of the chase, latching onto a Plan B as soon as he had one.

      "Dom, it's Viggo again. Can you and Billy meet me in Italy in two days?"

      "Two days, mate? That's awfully short notice."

      "Please. Elijah and I need your help."

      "Well, I guess…"

      "Just meet us at his apartment. I swear to God, this will work."

      "Okay, mate. Whatever you say. I'll book a flight, but you'd better pay me back."

     "No problem. As long as you can be here."

     "Yeah, all right. We'll see you in two days."

 

      Two days later, Elijah and Viggo were sitting on a couch opposite Dom and Billy, the room dark and four steaming cups of tea on the coffee table between them.

      "I hope to God you two have an actual plan," Dom commented when they were all settled, Billy and Dom's things thrown into Elijah's bedroom for safekeeping.

      "Yeah, we do," Viggo replied. "I thought of it on the way over here, actually. You see, the key to getting to Harry is to get to Orlando, right? Harry is basically unreachable, the stupid fucker, but you all have Orlando's mobile."

      "Yes…" Billy agreed, watching Viggo suspiciously.

      "Now if we can get Orlando, we can reel Harry in. And here's what I'm thinking. Orlando is suspiciously meticulous about protecting Elijah, here. I mean anyone can see that he means more to Orlando than just a kid with a talent for predicting the future, but he himself doesn't seem to realise that." Elijah beamed at the insinuation, but remained silent. "Now what I'm thinking is this. What if I pretend to be trying to hurt Elijah? What if you call Orlando, Dom, and warn him? Tell him I've gone completely off my rocker and am threatening to kill him or something? He'll go beserk, come back, and then maybe we can point out to him just how worried he got when Elijah was in 'danger.' If we can make him see what he could have, what he does have, then maybe he'll realise that it's in his best interest to look under his bloody nose and let me claim what's mine."

      Dom grinned as Viggo sat back on the sofa, looking satisfied. "Yours, mate?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as Viggo stared at him.

      "Oh, fuck off."

      "I don't know, Vig. I mean, it sounds kind of dangerous…" Billy pointed out with a worried look.

      "It'll be fine. I can take care of myself, and as soon as they're both here I'll make sure he knows that I wasn't actually going to hurt Elijah. I just want Harry and I in the same room, and at the moment that's pretty much impossible to finangle."

      "Without resorting to dramatic means," Dom finished for him.

      "Exactly."

      "Well, all right," Billy agreed. "But we'll be around if you need us."

      "Thanks a lot, man. I owe you one."

      "Oh, you owe me several, Mr. Mortensen. But I'll put it on your tab," Billy promised with a wink, and Viggo just laughed. Plan B was definitely in action.

 

      "Orli?"

      "Yeah, Dom, look I'm kind of busy right…"

      "Orli, now isn't the time. It's Elijah; he's in trouble…"

      "The fuck? Dom, what's wrong?"

      "Viggo, he… well he went kind of crazy, I think. All psycho like, saying that if you're going to end up with Harry, then he's going to make sure he gets Elijah…" Orlando's breathing was sharp, pained, and Dom grinned at the others in the room.

      "Dom, where is he?"

      "At Elijah's apartment. Viggo's locked them in there from the inside; he's saying all sorts of crazy shit about taking Elijah's innocence, and I don't know what else, sounds like a bad cult horror movie or something, but I think he's serious…"

      "I'm on my way. I'm going to kill that fucker." The phone clicked shut audibly, and Dom grinned at his audience.

      "Like a fish on a hook, boys. He's got the bait, now we've just got to sit back and wait for him to bite."

      Viggo grinned, and Billy just chewed his lip worriedly. "I hope you know what you're doing, Vig. I really do…"

 

      "Orli! Orlando. Where are you going?"

      "To kill that son of a bitch, Harry, what do you think?"

      "Orli, please. Calm down. You don't need to hurt him…"

      "Oh, but I do. And I will." Harry stepped back a few paces as a truly scary stare was levelled on him, brown eyes flashing with raw hatred.

      "Whoa, Orli, hold on. I'm not Viggo, okay. Don't go killing _me_."

      "Look, Harry, no offence, but I have no time to give a fuck about you right now. Not while Elijah might be…" Orlando shuddered, and Harry frowned.

      "What do you mean, 'no time to give a fuck about me?' I thought you loved…"

      "Harry, I have to go now."

      "Fine, but I'm coming with you. This doesn't sit right with me, and I'm not letting you hurt him…"

      "Then you're going to have to try pretty fucking hard, Sinclair. Pretty _fucking_ hard."

 

      "So they're definitely coming?"

      "Train arrives in half an hour. Look, Vig, you've got to be convincing about this," Dom insisted. "He has to really think you're going to do something awful; really shake him up."

      "Don't worry, Dom. I've got it. Lock the door from the inside, say convincing things 'to' Elijah…"

      "I'm good at acting scared," Elijah added helpfully, smiling too gleefully to really be convincing.

      "All right, guys. We've got to make ourselves scarce. Good luck!" Dom added, giving Elijah and Viggo each a kiss on the cheek. Billy, ever the more reserved of the couple, shook each of their hands in turn and followed Dom out the door.

      "All right, 'Lijah. Time for Operation: Freak Orlando the Fuck Out," Viggo announced.

     Elijah just giggled.

 

      "Elijah! Elijah, honey, please open the door!" Harry watched, looking quite worried, as his friend pounded with all his might.

      "Orli! Oh my God, Orli, please help me!" Orlando gasped at the sound of Elijah's voice and rattled the knob pointlessly.

      "Elijah, get away from the door," Viggo warned in a low tone, frightening still but audible from the other side of the door. "Just come here, and I won't hurt you…"

      "Fucker!!" Orlando yelled, throwing himself at the door. Harry flattened himself against the wall, not wanting to hurt himself, but was fast behind him when Orlando finally managed to kick the wooden door down, storming in and having Viggo pinned against the wall by his neck in mere seconds without bothering to examine Elijah's state. "You fucking arsehole!" Orlando screamed as Viggo choked, trying in vain to tug Orlando's arms from his neck. Harry stepped inside and took a quick look at the situation, his eyes darting from Orlando trying to crush Viggo's windpipe before asking any questions to Elijah, looking perfectly normal and unhurt and suddenly trying to throw Orlando off. Shit.

      "Wait, Orli, wait! It was just a hoax, he didn't… please!" Elijah screamed, tugging helplessly at Orlando's t-shirt. Viggo's arms flailed desperately as his body began to lose its fight, and Harry's eyes went wide, letting out a growl as he took Orlando down in a flying rugby tackle, pinning the slighter man to the floor as he tried to get away.

      "Orli! Would you fucking stop it?! It's not real; look! Look at Elijah!" Orlando tried to fight the other man for a few more moments, but then suddenly went still as he saw Elijah standing there, looking a bit frightened at the scene but fundamentally undamaged.

      "What the…" Harry let off of Orlando when it was clear he wasn't going to attack Viggo again, and then got up off of the other man, crawling over to where Viggo sat slumped against the wall, gasping in air.

      "Oh my God, Vig. Are you all right?" Harry asked, gingerly lifting a hand up to touch Viggo's neck where bruises were rapidly swelling to the surface.

      "Jesus. I'm… fine," he coughed out. "Didn't expect him to literally try to fucking kill me, though," he added when he had enough breath in his lungs.

      "Well what _did_ you expect?" Orlando asked, shooting Viggo a glare as he held Elijah protectively in his arms.

      "Well…that," Viggo offered with a weak smile, waving his hand to indicate the hug, and Orlando blushed crimson when he understood the insinuation, jumping away.

      "Wait… I don't… I'm not…."

      Viggo just laughed weakly, shaking his head. "Of course you don't. Jesus, Orlando. He's fucking in love with you, don't you see? You were scared as fuck when you thought he might be hurt, and don't you dare try to tell me it's just because he's valuable. You care about him, you dumb fuck, and there's no reason why you can't just let him make you happy, and leave Harry and I to figure out our own damned lives…"

      "Viggo, wait. You know I can't…" Viggo groaned aloud, stopping Harry's attempt at an objection before it began.

      "Bull. Shit. God, Harry! Are you really so fucking _blind_? Look, tell me this. If the prize you've gotten is so great that it's really worth giving up on whatever the fuck we might have, if it's really worth finding the man you're supposedly destined to love, falling for him, and then saying goodbye forever, tell me. I'll walk away. I won't be happy, but I'll walk."

      "I… um… well I don't exactly know what it is yet," Harry admitted, sheepishly, lowering his eyes.

      "Ha!" Viggo bellowed, looking truly pleased with himself. "Of course you don't. God Harry, are you really so dumb?"

      "'Ah think he might be," Billy commented as he and Dom suddenly slunk back into the apartment from their waiting spot across the street, visually assessing the damage.

      Viggo just laughed and reached out to take Harry's hand. "I want you to think for a moment, Harry. Think good and hard. The prophecy said that you had to find the one you love and then let him go. Did it not?"

      Harry nodded, still not comprehending.

      "Right, well you did that. Now. Did said prophecy say _anything_, anything at all, about how said love was forbidden to ever see you again? Forbidden to get you back? Forbidden to fall in love in return?" Harry thought for a moment, and then shook his head, a slow smile coming to his face. "Right. I thought so. God, you stupid fucker," Viggo repeated, affectionately, sliding forward on the floor to take Harry's face in his hands. "I think I figured it out, you know. I think I had to let you go so that I could realise what it was I had, or was starting to have with you. I think I needed to fight that fight. I never had a chance to fight for Dave; he was just ripped away from me, but with you I have a chance. I refuse to just let you leave without a chance to see what we might have, Harry. God help me, I think I might have just started to fall in love with you that night, the first baby steps at least, and you are not going to fuck that up for me. Just like Orlando's not going to fuck up what he has with Elijah because he's chasing an old dream, and just like Billy's not going to fuck up what he has with Dominic. Because they love each other, Harry. We all, on some level, love each other. And maybe I'm the only one smart enough to figure that out, but hell. I'm not giving it up."

      Harry grinned fully at that, and reached out to grasp Viggo's wrists in his hands. "Are you quite finished, then?"

      Viggo frowned and nodded slowly. "I haven't quite forgiven you yet, though."

      "Eh, that's all right. We can work on that," Harry replied with a smile, before shoving Viggo somewhat roughly to the ground and climbing atop his hips, leaning down to administer a long and probing kiss that had Dom wolf whistling energetically as Elijah giggled from his reclaimed spot in Orlando's arms.

      "Stupid fucker," Viggo whispered with a smile as Harry pulled away, and Harry just laughed.

      "So, you know…" he commented suddenly, looking around the room dramatically. "…we still haven't found out about this prize."

      "And how do you suggest we do that?" Billy asked, slinging an arm around Dom's waist as he eyed Harry suspiciously.

      "Well, you see, there is one more part to the prophecy." Harry grinned as the rest of the room collectively let out a groan. "No, no! This is a good one. You see, the prize itself can only be revealed by the one I love, or so the prophecy goes."

      "What? But I don't know anything!" Viggo pointed out, still flat on his back on the floor and apparently fairly content to rest there awhile.

      "Ah, but you do. See, the prize is to be found in something that the lover of the one I love said in the past. One of the last things he said, apparently. I figured I would have to find it out from you later, maybe through Billy or somebody, after we had been apart for awhile, but it never occurred to me that I'd have the chance to ask you in person. So now the question is this, Viggo, for you must know. You told me that David told you he loves you before his death, but was there anything else? Any little thing he said that might be a clue?"

      The room waited with bated breath as Viggo furrowed his brow, thinking back, and then suddenly burst into laughter.

      "Oh my God! That's it!"

      "What? What's it?" Harry asked eagerly as Viggo slapped a hand over his face.

      "Dave… before he died, well right when I came in the room, some insensitive fucker had the heart to point out that if the Kosovo story wasn't finished, he wouldn't have a chance at the Pulitzer. Dave always kind of hoped for it, in the back of his mind, and this story was his best shot. Well of course I wanted to kill the guy for pointing it out, but Dave just smiled, as best he could the way his body was mangled. And he said, 'hey Vig, don't worry. I'm in love, and you love me. That's the only prize I need, babe.'" Viggo smiled at the memory, absently stroking Harry's back with one hand as Harry in turn stroked his hair comfortingly. "And then he said he loved me, and he died. But that's it! Don't you see? He was in love with me, and I with him… that's the prize! For all of us, I mean look! You're in love with me, and Elijah's in love with Orli, and all odds are that before the year is out that love will be mutual… if all this hadn't happened, if the prophecy hadn't come true, then none of us would have found each other. God, it's so fucking obvious." And at that, Harry grinned, and slid his hand around to cup Viggo's jaw, and went back to snogging him like a teenager.

      And, given all the love in the air, Orli decided that it wouldn't be too presumptuous to lean down and claim Elijah's smiling lips for the first time as well.

      And since all that kissing was going on, and Dom was rarely one to be left out, he dramatically flung his arms around Billy's neck and became part of the third couple of the impromptu lovefest.

      And, somewhere far above the clouds, in a land where love never dies, a king wearing a brilliant purple frock and a crown of jewels took the hand of his lover and found his lips again for the first time in more than 400 years.

      And all was right with the world.

 

      THE END


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ladies and gentlemen, we've come to the end. It's been an excellent ride, and I hope you've all enjoyed it! The first prequel (Dave/Vig) is currently being edited and should be posted tonight or tomorrow, so stay tuned! These muses haven't left me alone ye

     _One year later_

 

      "Hey 'Lij, is it going to rain today? I'm supposed to meet Dom and Billy's train at five, and I can't find my mac!'

      "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a fucking barometer!"

      "Yes love, but… is it?" Orlando asked, standing in the doorway between their bedroom and the living room with his best pout. Elijah just rolled his eyes and threw a pillow at his lover.

      "No, it's not. Honestly, you know, with all your use of my 'services' you think you'd at least let me earn a little cash at the Psychic Hotline or something…"

      "Oh now love, don't get upset. You now how much I appreciate your _services_," Orlando cooed, slithering over the back of the sofa to deposit himself in Elijah's lap, his lips tracing a familiar path to his lover's neck.

      "C'mon, Orli, I'm reading. I want to see how it ends!"

      "Elijah! You _know_ how it ends, for fuck's sake!" Orlando exclaimed, flopping back against the cushions with an exasperated sigh as Elijah categorically ignored him, turning back to Viggo's novel.

      "Well I don't know _everything_. I mean, there might be salacious details in here. Sex sells, you know."

      Orlando rolled his eyes and leaned down, rucking up Elijah's shirt a bit to flick his tongue against his lover's navel. "Like you could really read about Harry and Vig having sex with a straight face."

      "Well considering as you actually _had_ sex with the man…"

      "Like, ten years ago! Probably needs Viagra by now, the old sod. You, on the other hand…" Orlando purred as he unbuttoned Elijah's shirt, following his fingers with his tongue. Elijah giggled at his lover's predatory look, threading one hand in Orlando's curls and finally setting the book aside.

      "Come now, you don't actually expect me to believe that the two of you spent two days together before everything happened and didn't at least go in for a few blowjobs?"

      "Scout's honour," Orlando swore, holding up three fingers in mock salute.

      "Serious?"

      "Serious. It wasn't the same, 'Lij. I know I didn't _know_ how I would come to feel about you, but I think I did know, deep down, that I wasn't meant to be with Harry anymore. Nothing happened."

      "Jesus," Elijah breathed, half in response to the information and half in reverence as Orlando's mouth attached to a nipple.

      "Well, love, I guess I'd better go get Dom and Billy now…" Orlando teased, pulling up and almost making it away from the couch before Elijah tugged him back down roughly by the shoulders.

      "They can fucking wait," he growled, guiding Orlando's head downward as he flicked open his fly with one hand.

      "Oh, but you're so beautiful when you beg," Orlando joked, and Elijah just growled again as he studiously avoided the obvious, nipping instead at Elijah's hipbones. "Hey, do you think Harry and Vig might be able to visit when they're in Rome for the book tour?"

      "Last I heard… you _fucking_ cocktease… they were…" Elijah gasped as Orlando tugged his boxers down with his teeth. "…um… taking holiday in Australia and New Zealand… meeting the family… and you know… Dave's family… and… _fuck_!" Orlando grinned as he finally took his lover's cock all the way into his throat, his fingers lacing with Elijah's as practiced motions brought the younger man quickly to the edge.

      "Don't really want to talk about Vig and Harry anymore…" Orlando murmured against Elijah's cockhead as he pulled back briefly before plunging back down again.

      "Fucker!"


End file.
